That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  “Can you trust me that I will tell you everything I can, when I can?”

  “Once your Katrina stories are published, you mean?”

  “Sooner, if I can,” Jack assured her, “but it’ll most likely be after the August 29th anniversary date. Just know that what I can’t tell you is governed by the peculiar circumstances of this damned, expanded assignment I’m saddled with.”

  For Jack, even the thought of having to tell her someday that the Durands may have been a cause of the Antonelli’s family tragedy was too horrible to contemplate.

  At length, to his relief, she murmured, “Alright. That’s enough for me,” and slid her arms around his neck. “At least for now, anyway.”

  God, she was an incredible woman... but would she think he was even a decent guy after August 29th?

  Then, as if to prove her leap of faith, she began kissing him in a fashion that was clearly calculated to speed them upstairs to her room. If tonight turned out to be the last time they could ever be together like this, Jack thought, he would risk telling her absolutely everything as soon as he possibly could. She deserved to know the unvarnished truth, even if he had to endure the pain that she might choose to walk away.

  But for now...

  Arms around each other, they slowly climbed the marble staircase where a tall, mahogany door with the familiar oval brass plaque appeared on the landing.

  “May I welcome you back to the Canaletto Room?” Serena said with a crooked smile, accompanied by a hint of shyness that pierced his well-defended heart.

  Once inside with the door now firmly locked, Jack took his time helping Serena remove her warm jacket she’d borrowed from Corlis earlier that day. He savored the warmth and feel of her body beneath his fingers as he worked the buttons marching down the front of the bulky garment. He tossed it on a chair upholstered in the same, golden brocade that covered the bed, and in the next moment, mirroring his actions, she reached out to help him shed his thick coat. With increasing urgency, they stripped each other of every stitch of clothing. Before a minute had passed, there was a trail of their discards extending from the door to the edge of the mattress.

  “My beautiful Serena,” Jack murmured, his hands skimming lightly from her shoulders to her thighs, her slender frame and long limbs responding to his touch with aching familiarity. He gently pulled the ribbon fastening her hair at her neck. He drank in the sight of the dark strands cascading down her shoulders. “This was how I wanted to say goodbye last time... to love you like this so you would know how much you mean to me... so there would be no doubts, no questioning of my feelings for you.”

  Jack supported her back and carefully laid her across the bedcovers, his breath catching at how lovely she looked with her dark eyes staring up at him.

  “What a brunette Botticelli you are,” he said, smiling down at her, her sable hair fanned across the pillow.

  Serena reached up to grasp him by both shoulders and then glanced down at his waistline with a faint smile playing around her lips. Her slender fingers took gentle possession of a most tender part of him and touched him reverently.

  “Ah... I think we’ll have to call you Neptune Rising...” she whispered.

  Slowly, she pulled him down so he smothered the length of her frame, her body beneath him a luxurious cushion of curves and soft skin and a heady scent of longing and desire.

  And then he shut out even that thought and slowly sheathed himself in Serena’s welcoming warmth.

  However the fates played out this tortured tale, this night would belong to them both. By any measure, it was worth the risk.

  A thick mist lay on the Grand Canal, a sliver of which Jack could glimpse out the balconied window in the Canaletto Room that faced Traghetto della Madonnetta. The narrow passageway he had gazed at so often from this window ended at a small dock where gondoliers crossed the Grand Canal from the San Polo district to Sant’Angelo on the San Marco side. He was due at the Pensione Accademia to meet with King and Corlis in half an hour. There, he would return Corlis’ clothing to her that Serena had borrowed, pick up his luggage, and the trio would board the water taxi to Marco Polo Airport.

  He shrugged on his heavy coat and gazed down at Serena once more, sleeping on her side, a hand curled under her chin as he’d so often seen her the times when he’d left this room at the crack of dawn. The nights they had shared in this bed came back to him in a wondrous rush of tactile memories and a sense that here was home... here were the feelings he’d always known were missing until now. Serena was all he wanted in a life’s companion. All he’d ever wanted. He could only think how much his body and soul yearned to make love to this woman once more before he left, to let her know with taste and touch that after today—whatever the future held—no one else would ever lay a claim to his heart like La Contessa Antonelli...

  He bent over the bed and brushed a kiss against her forehead.

  “Arrivederci, cara,” he whispered.

  “Oh, no... it’s time for you to leave?” she murmured, and pulled herself up on her elbows.

  “Yes... and I hope I don’t get lost sprinting to the Duvallons’ hotel,” he said, touching his index finger to his lips and then pressing it against her own.

  “Forget that pocket map and go for broke. Use your phone’s GPS,” she urged, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. “It’s so easy to get turned around.” She glanced out the window, adding, “And especially when it’s foggy like this.”

  He heard her pad behind him to the door and was glad, wanting to keep her close until the last possible moment. He turned and she melted into his arms.

  “Fly safe,” she mumbled into his chest. She tilted her head and met his gaze. “Last night was... well... pretty unforgettable. I loved...” She halted, mid-sentence. “Oh, hell, I might as well say it in case your plane crashes—or mine does in two weeks. I love you, Jack. It scares me how much.”

  Jack pulled her hard against him. Something had shifted in him, something momentous. Without qualm or hesitation he replied, “I love you too, Contessa. So much, it’s pretty staggering. I’ll be counting the days until you come back to New Orleans.”

  Serena’s broad smile told him he’d given her the reassurance every woman needs after a night like the one they’d just spent together. The fireworks between them wasn’t just lust, although there had been plenty of that. His feelings for her were beyond serious, Jack knew. They had “forever” written all over them—that is, if the Gods were on their side.

  Who’s ever in charge up there, he prayed silently in the manner of a lapsed Catholic, please, please may my fears that the Durands must answer for any sins prove groundless...

  “This is just goodbye for now, darling,” Jack said, and then realized with a jolt he’d never called any other woman by that endearment.

  “Addio, caro,” replied Serena. “I’ll let you know my flight number and when it’s supposed to land. Now go... go before I start to cry!”

  He nodded, moisture filling his own eyes. He exited swiftly and heard the door close behind him, followed by the sound of his footsteps slapping against the marble staircase that led to the lobby and the lodging’s front door. His cellphone in hand, he sprinted down Calle del Forno while his mind filled with strategies for a means through which he could continue to see Serena in the next few months without compromising the integrity of the story he had to produce for the T-P.

  There has to be a way...

  By the time he arrived at King and Corlis’ pensione, it was worth the bloody fortune it cost for his phone’s GPS function to guide him flawlessly down murky alleyways and across several bridges to the Dorsoduro section of the island where the Duvallons were waiting, dockside. In minutes, the trio boarded the water taxi that sped the three friends on the first leg of their long journey home to New Orleans.

  Serena’s last ten days in Venice were filled with the mundane work of reconciling invoices for materials and time spent creating the new costumes made for Allegra’s numerous
clients. She also helped with the task of entering notes that described new creations made that year for the rental business—and catalogued them in a pictorial database that tracked some fifteen hundred costumes already hanging in rows at Allegra’s atelier where people came to make their selections for special occasions throughout the year.

  Ironically, no more storms off the Adriatic smashed into Venice from the moment Jack and the Duvallons departed the city. Although temperatures remained in the low thirties, without the sleet and snow, the weather to Serena felt positively balmy.

  A week before she was to leave for New Orleans, Allegra invited her to dinner at Ignazio, a rustic, wood-beamed tavern near Serena’s lodgings with a vine-covered courtyard in summer, and a year-round menu of traditional Venetian cuisine.

  As soon as their glasses were filed with prosecco, Allegra raised hers and said, “I’ve already told you I hope you will come back to Venice at any time of year, but if you want a permanent invitation to come to Carnevale as my guest, I’ve brought you this.”

  From her voluminous leather tote she withdrew a wine-red, velvet-clad invitation nearly the size of a file folder with Serena’s name written in a flourish of gold script on the front.

  “As long as I am producing this event,” Allegra continued, “you—and three more guests—are to be my guests in any given year at the dinner and ball, including the costumes of your choice.”

  “Oh, Allegra... how wonderful! I’ll have to negotiate fiercely with my brother to be allowed to ever again get away from New Orleans during our Mardi Gras season, but I expect, some years, I’ll finish my work a few days early and escape to Venice.” She stared at the beautiful invitation and then met her friend’s gaze. “And perhaps, one year, you’ll leave all the work to one of your deputies and come to spend Fat Tuesday with me at our Mardi Gras.”

  Allegra shook her head doubtfully. “I will put on Il Ballo di Carnevale for as many years as I am able. But I will definitely come to visit you and my saviors in New Orleans at another time of year.”

  “Jazz Fest!” Serena exclaimed. “Or Quarter Fest! That’s when you should come! It’s usually not too hot at the end of April and beginning May, and you’ll see my city in its truest incarnation. These two musical events feature a real gumbo of sights and sounds and flavors!”

  “I would adore to,” Allegra replied. Then her smile faded. “And what of that special savior, Giovanni? How did things work out with that lovely man?”

  Serena fought the flood of heat that instantly infused her cheeks. She could not think of the last night they’d spent together without a blush fanning up from her throat.

  “Well... we... ah... sorted out a lot of things while he was here last time, but still... there’s something he’s thus far unwilling or unable to tell me that I sense is important for how it ultimately turns out for us.”

  “Has he given you a reason for not telling you?”

  “It involves the newspaper series he’s been assigned that will mark the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina in late August. I can’t imagine what it is he can’t tell me, but apparently, journalistic ethics require not disclosing a bunch of stuff until after the story is published.”

  “And why would that affect the two of you, I wonder?” Allegra asked with a puzzled expression. “What would there be about a newspaper story he’s doing that could impact your relationship?”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Serena mused. She paused and then revealed, “My brother and his pregnant wife drowned in the storm.”

  “Oh, no... how terrible for your family,” she murmured.

  Serena nodded her thanks and continued, “I got the feeling from Jack he thought that his rehashing that nightmare would somehow... I dunno,” she said with an audible sigh, “... would perhaps make me angry with him for stirring all that up again? I’ll just have to wait and see. For sure, I don’t look forward to thinking or reading about all that again.”

  “Jack Durand seems a caring, honest man. Just hold on to that until you know exactly what is involved down the road.”

  “Good advice,” Serena said, raising her glass once again. “As always.” She leaned into the table and added, “I will never forget all the things you’ve taught me, Allegra. About the designing of costumes... and about life. I can never thank you—”

  “And I can never thank you,” she interrupted, “but I wish to try.” She reached into her voluminous handbag again and pulled out an out-sized manila envelope that looked as if it could contain a chest X-ray, or something equally large.

  “Here are copies of all my drawings of costumes that you cut out of muslin. You did such a wonderful job testing if my pattern pieces would translate into the gowns looking the way I envisioned, and then making some necessary adjustments. I want you to have the original sketches... perhaps spin some of them off into costumes of your own devising.”

  “Oh... my... God!” Serena exclaimed, her eyes drinking in the fanciful lines of Allegra’s fantastic creations. The last drawing had tissue paper pattern pieces attached. It was one she hadn’t worked on: The Seas of Venice costume that she’d worn to the ball.

  “I can’t give you the costume,” Allegra apologized, “but I would love it if you made one of your own. No one who has worn it looked more lovely in it than you.”

  “I-I can’t believe you’d do this... make me this incredibly generous gift.” She looked up from the drawings to meet Allegra’s gaze.

  “I wanted to,” the older woman replied simply.

  Serena stared at the Seas of Venice sketch again, eyes shining.

  “Nothing could inspire me more to bring my own family’s costume firm closer to the level of beauty you have created at your atelier. I will have the drawing framed when I get home and hang it over my desk at Antonelli’s! Thank you so very much, dear Allegra.”

  “Mille grazie, cara Serena. Ora siamo amiche per sempre.”

  “Oh, yes,” Serena nodded. “We are friends forever...”

  CHAPTER 17

  In the first week Jack returned to New Orleans, his editor and several of his colleagues congratulated him on his story about repairing the palazzo in time for Venetian Carnival in spite of the atrocious weather and rising floodwaters. Several of his co-workers took great pleasure ribbing him about the accompanying photograph that showed him clad in his giornalista caftan, along with the rest of the media. Only a few people mentioned the problems he described in the article of fighting the “unhelpful” Venetian bureaucracy whose byzantine ways nearly scuttled the entire enterprise.

  Too familiar a story around here... he fumed silently.

  “And great that you could bring in the local angle,” John Reynolds noted in a rare compliment. “The bosses upstairs loved the fact that you and King Duvallon got American limestone products through those tricky customs officials over there.” He turned to his assistant and barked, “Get Advertising on the phone. Tell them to go after some ads from those ArcusStone folks and the sealant people that Jack mentioned in his story. They should be good for a half-page ad—or two, even—this month!”

  When Jack handed in his expense account, Reynolds actually patted him on the back.

  “Amazing! How did you do that trip for practically nothing?”

  “Friends in right places, plus I paid my own airfare,” he reminded his boss.

  Reynolds eyed him narrowly and then grinned.

  “Did you learn a lot of Italian while you were there?”

  Jack allowed himself to grin back.

  “Some.”

  “I’ll just bet,” Reynolds replied. “A lot of those women in the photos you used in your story looked pretty damn sexy in their costumes. You reporters have all the fun.”

  But for Jack, the next few weeks of research were going to be anything but fun. Reynolds had gotten the official go-ahead from his bosses for a three-part approach to the paper’s coverage of the tenth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Jack’s expanded assignment meant that there was
no way he could avoid finally getting to the bottom of his uncles’ involvement in the crucial decisions made both by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in the 1980s, as well as examining the decades of policies practiced by members of New Orleans’s Levee Board leading up to the storm.

  A few days before Serena was due to arrive back in town, Jack accepted his mother’s invitation to the Durand’s regular Sunday dinner hosted at their family home in the Bywater section on Royal Street, a few blocks from the Mississippi. Ironically enough, his family home was in one of the few racially mixed areas of the predominately black Upper Ninth Ward to escape serious flooding in Katrina. In Colonial times, it had been mostly plantation land—that is, until the nineteenth century when many people from France—including the Durands’ ancestors, he’d been told—settled there where land was relatively cheap. Shotgun houses and bungalows were interspersed with some of New Orleans’s most renowned art galleries and music venues.

  “It’s gotten mighty too full of hipsters around here, if you asked me,” his father often groused about the current mix of white and black blue-collar families who grew up there and bohemian arrivals that moved into the neighborhood in the wake of Katrina. The latter group had been driven out of the trendy French Quarter by rising prices.

  On Sunday morning, Jack awoke in his four-poster bed on Julia Street in the heart of the Warehouse District with a feeling of dread about attending the family dinner. Once he’d made coffee, he filled his favorite Jazz Fest mug with the steaming brew and padded to his small office with a view of nearby Charles Street where the khaki-green streetcars rattled by.

  It must be eighty degrees outside already, he thought, eyeing a stack of documents piled on his desk. He wondered what the temperature was in Venice and quickly summoned it on his cellphone’s weather app. It was a breezy forty-seven. He forced himself away from the image he put on his cellphone’s landing page of Serena wearing her winter anorak and sitting in the bow of a Number One vaporetto, heading for Allegra’s office near St. Mark’s Square.