A large screen sat in front of Casey’s bed and the nurse turned it on.
The camera was zoomed in on blue and pink wings, then it moved down to a flowing silk dress, a gentle face with a slight smile, hands holding a silver-gilt censer. Then another bare-footed angel came into view with a green and yellow silk dress, another in light green and purple, another holding a yellow scarf.
Casey knew where this was. The Neapolitan Baroque crèche at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Each of the figures, from six to twenty inches were works of art and she had come to know them well over the years during her annual Christmas visits with her mother. It was such a peaceful, happy time in her life and she sunk her head into the pillow and watched.
The camera paused on a gentle smile, a head modeled in terracotta and polychromed to perfection. The angel’s golden wings were brushed lightly with red and teal, and led to an articulated body of wire wrapped in tow, covered with a blue cape billowing from a red and yellow dress.
Each of the 200 figures were crafted this way, by the finest sculptors of the eighteenth century - Giuseppe Sammartino, Salvatore di Franco, Giuseppe Gori, and Lorenzo Mosca. The jeweled and embroidered costumes were hand-sewn by women who collected the pieces.
The camera moved along the hand-sculpted angels and cherubs, each one familiar to her. Casey’s favorite was the angel with a simple pale yellow dress scooped at the neck, holding a salmon shawl, with curls shaped as if the wind was blowing through them. When her mother died, she wished to be buried in a dress just like it. ‘She was an angel’, Foster repeated over and over again on that day.
The camera skimmed over approximately fifty large angels on the baroque Christmas tree each year and then panned to the scenes below. The Virgin and baby Jesus with a silver-gilt halo, St. Joseph clutching a silver staff. The dark-skinned Moorish king with a silver-gilt crown and velvet garments with glass buttons, coral beads and pearls. And the king’s attendants, one with a cotton turban and a silk and satin jacket, and another with a long cotton and silk cape with a brass sword.
Casey was always amazed at the detail in an eleven inch figure: shepherds with simple cotton and burlap clothes with leather belts with silver buckles; a young man with wooden bagpipes, a man with a fur vest, another with silk striped pants.
The camera swept past a peasant woman with velvet clothes, an oriental woman with glass eyes, the lady with gold earrings with pearls holding a silver basket. As a child, Casey’s favorites were always the animals. The wooden camel with leather saddlebags, the adult goat with metal horns, a monkey with silver collar and chain. She had loved the black horse with velvet-covered saddle so much that her mom created a replica for her one Christmas and they sewed a satin saddle blanket with metallic thread and braided a gold mane together. It was the center point of the family Christmas tree every year, and one of the many items that her father tossed into the garbage.
The camera pulled back to take in the entire eighteenth-century nativity scene, silk-robed angels floating from the candlelit spruce looking upon the lifelike figures below. Casey could just see herself decades ago, standing in awe while her mother explained the various figurines to her, and told her the Christmas story.
The exhibit was a longstanding holiday tradition for New Yorkers and visitors, but to Casey it was a mother-daughter tradition. Since Loretta Hines Howard donated the crèche figures to the museum in the 1960s, she worked on the display each year. Then her daughter, Linn Howard, helped her with the annual installation, and continued the tradition after her mother's death. Now Linn Howard's daughter, Andrea Selby Rossi had joined the tradition and helped her mother create the holiday showcase. Casey could hear her mother’s voice. This is the magic of Christmas.
Instead Harry’s voice entered the room. “Happy twenty-fourth day of Christmas, Cassandra.” She saw his face briefly on the screen. I thought I’d bring what you love about Christmas to you. And for that, I needed some help because I didn’t have you as my tour guide.”
The camera shifted next to Harry and revealed Foster. “Hi Cass. Hope you’re feeling better. I love you, my girl. And I’m proud of you.” A smile replaced his scowl and he slapped Harry’s back. “Harry’s not too bad either.”
The camera shifted back to Harry. “Foster is going to take me on the window shopping walk you did with your Mom every year.”
Foster’s face appeared on screen again, now at the steering wheel. “Right down to me driving the car like I always did.”
The camera shifted to the scene on the street as the car drove through downtown while Foster explained Casey’s favorite stops. The red bow at Grand Central Station, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, the trinkets at the flea market.
Foster told the story of how seven-year old Casey ran from one window display to another along Fifth Avenue and got separated from her mom. She walked right up to a Santa on the street corner and asked him to find her mommy for her. Foster broke out into fits of laughter. “You had balls.”
The camera followed the window displays, from Bergdorf Goodman and Henri Bendel to Bloomingdale's and Lord & Taylor. Foster had a cute story for each one, including the ten-story facade on Saks Fifth Avenue.
At the Tiffany’s window, Harry waved the store clerk over and she unlocked a cabinet and opened a velvet box. He turned to Foster. “This ring is for Casey. I wanted to ask you, for your blessing in marrying your daughter.”
Foster’s face softened and his eyes turned misty. “Yes, Harry.” He slapped him on the back again. “I’d be proud.”
Casey lifted her hands to her face and shook her head. When she finally looked up, Harry stepped out of the corner of the room. “Merry Christmas, Cassandra.”
He handed her a gift. She opened the box to an album of childhood photos. She ran her finger along a photo of her and her mother on a swing set in Central Park. “I didn’t know this existed. Where did you find it?”
“Your cousin had that in one of your aunt’s albums. She let me look through them all.”
Casey turned the page to a photo of her mom holding her hand as they walked into a lake. “I love this one.”
“I got that from Roger.”
“Roger?”
Harry nodded. “He had an album of joint childhood photos. He said he always hoped you’d come back for it.”
“I forgot all about it.”
“He said the position at the university is still available for you. No strings attached.”
“Did you bring my gift for you?”
He nodded and tugged at the bow. He pulled out a leather-bound book, identical to the ones Casey had given him earlier, with the hand-written title: Volume III: Our Life Together. The pages were blank and she said: “We’ll write these chapters together, Harry, whatever our life brings.”
“I can’t be without you, Cassandra. Not now. Not ever.”
Tears ran down her cheek.
“Please Cassandra, marry me. Let me take care of you in sickness and health.”
Before she could answer, the doctor walked in. “I’ve got good news for you.”
Cassandra leaned into Harry.
“We were so focused on your gene mutation that we overlooked the obvious. Looks like you’ve got yourself a special Christmas gift this year.”
Casey nodded. “Harry is very special.”
“In more ways than one.” He looked at both of them with a smile. “You’re pregnant. Congratulations.”
It was Casey that burst out with superlatives. Having spent that last days in fear of cancer she was relieved that she was only pregnant. “It was my Christmas wish,” she said.
PART THREE
The Most Important Thing You Can Do
The Most Important Thing You Can Do...
Well, for me anyway.
I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading AQUA. You've just climbed to the top of my favorite people in the world category, a list currently populated by whoever first decided to crush grapes for wine and w
hoever thought to dip fresh strawberries in dark chocolate!
But there's one more thing I'd appreciate if you have a few minutes....
If you enjoyed AQUA, please leave a review today. The biggest challenge for writers is finding an audience and reviews at Amazon, Goodreads, and similar sites can make all the difference in the world between whether a new reader will find and purchase my books. I love writing, and would continue to do so even if I only had 5 readers, but, the better my books do, the more I can write for you.
If you leave a review today, thanks. If you don't, I won't take offense - I'm just thrilled that you are reading!
From my heart, a big Thank you!
Amanda S. Jones
PART FOUR
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PART FIVE
The Next Book in the Series
AQUA - Caribbean Nights
Step aboard the Aqua as it sails to the Caribbean and immerse yourself in true love, exotic locations, seduction and sumptuous foods.
Caribbean Nights is the fourth book in the AQUA series where you’ll meet new characters along with the ship’s crew as they enjoy ocean breezes, palm trees, tropical fruits and more.
The Aqua series, an intimate experience of food, travel and love. In each book, you will journey on the cruise ship Aqua, each story bringing new characters, destinations and experiences, each interwoven with the last. You will also spend time in Chef Amber’s kitchen, at her food workshops or her chef’s table for a sensual and sumptuous food experience - taste the meals, test her methods in your own kitchen or even try some of the character’s moves in your own bedroom!
Love happens on the Aqua…
Other Titles: Aqua Romance Travel Series
Aqua - Venetian Nights (Volume 1, Book 1)
Aqua - Mediterranean Nights (Volume 1, Book 2)
Looking to cruise the world? You can purchase the Aqua Romance Travel series as individual titles or in bundle packages for extra savings! Looking for a destination Amanda S. Jones hasn’t covered yet - let us know at [email protected].
PART SIX
Bonus: First Chapter of AQUA - Venetian Nights
St. Mark's Square
A WARM breeze blew into St. Mark's Square from the lagoon. Casey pushed auburn bangs off her face and closed her book. Venice was serene at night, the tourists had returned to the mainland and the moon was casting a warm glow on the floating city. In the lantern light, a couple framed against the row of marble arches were embraced in a long kiss and Casey wondered how many times this scene had repeated itself, night after night, over hundreds of years. From her outdoor table at Caffè Florian, Casey watched couples dancing in the square, a young woman twirling for a photo, and a group of single women swaying as they sang a song.
“Madame,” the white-gloved waiter pulled a cappuccino from the tray, and then a dessert platter.
“I didn’t order this,” Casey said.
“They are with the compliments of the gentleman over there,” he pointed in the direction of a dark-haired man who tipped his glass toward her as his lips parted in a slow-forming smile.
A second waiter brought a platter of prosciutto, melons, fresh figs and other antipasti.
“I didn’t think you had dishes like this on the menu.”
“We don’t, madame. These were a special request.”
“Grazie,” she said.
When the waiters left, she took another look at the man and mouthed, ‘Grazie’. He smiled and raised his glass toward her. The lantern light cast a soft shadow on his face where his sideburns led to a strong jawline and a dimpled chin.
Strange, she thought, that she would run into someone at the end of her day. She had wandered around the cafe, admiring the antique mirrors and chandeliers, the rooms painted with original frescos. She had run her fingers along one of the mirrors, pondering how many women such as herself had looked at themselves, questioning what their future held. How many faces could be staring back at her, and what stories would they tell, what secrets would they hold. Centuries ago, women didn’t grapple with the thoughts of double mastectomies or genetic markers. They lived their lives unaware of a disease until it riddled their bodies. It was a blessing, Casey thought, not to know the future. Since finding out about the future health risks of her BRCA 1 and 2 gene mutations, she grappled with her options daily.
In her heart, she would rather lose her breasts than die of cancer in the future. She knew life would go on, and with a good partner, even love would continue, but that wasn’t the case with Roger. To him, a mastectomy was an amputation, a disfigurement, a fearful action; whereas Casey saw it as embracing life. She would feel safer and calmer, but Roger saw it as false reassurance. He advocated a lifestyle change that wouldn’t allow cancer cells to proliferate. The problem was that included reducing stress, something she couldn’t avoid in her demanding job as a prof. Her reputation as a thorough researcher left her little time for anything but work. On top of that, she made a name for herself in the classroom as well - READitter - where she shelled out long reading lists with tough assignments and wouldn’t accept any excuses for late work. By trying to live up to her demanding father's expectations, she had made many sacrifices for her career and she had just landed a coveted Chair position that started in a month. She wasn’t walking away from that.
At times she wondered if her relationship was as stressful. Thing is, she seemed to choose men who were equally challenging. One of the things she loved about Roger, were their healthy debates. Casey had built a wall against opening herself up to criticism, but ever since their philosophy class, he was the one person who could actually win an argument with her. But a double mastectomy was different. Genetic markers were personal, and whatever she chose to do with her body was not up for discussion. It was an area of their life where Roger strongly disagreed, and coupled with other issues, he walked away from their relationship when she needed him most.
As Casey had stared into the ancient mirror, thoughts of the past, especially her own, had unnerved her and she hurried to the outside patio to find a table, and pull out a book as a distraction. She’d leaned back in her chair, knowing the evening would unfold for the quintessential but canned St. Mark’s experience, with the dueling bands and tourists dancing. A gorgeous Italian flirting with her, however, was beyond what she had imagined. She tried to catch another glimpse of him without looking overly interested.
Who knew who the man really was. In this 18th century cafe, everyone from Casanova and Lord Byron to Woody Allen and George Clooney had walked through the doors. She pushed her Bellini aside, wondering what he thought of her ordering a prosecco and fresh peach nectar rather than the coffee.
ARRIGO HAD watched her for a while, when she’d arrived in a fluster, then stuffed her camera and brochures into her purse. Her navy blue dress was simple, a clean snug fit that tapered from her shapely shoulders to her thin waist. From there, the skirt was loose and as she crossed her legs, one of her sandals slipped from her slender feet. She took a few minutes to pull out a book, and this was when he took real interest. Rather than open the pages of a travel guidebook as most tourists clutched in their hands, it was ‘Candide’ by Voltaire. She read a few pages, then put the book away and took in the scenery, her high cheek bones angled toward the top of the Doges Palace. He wondered what chapter she had reached within the book.
Ever since his mother died, Arrigo’s interest in women had changed. Rather than shopping trips and social events, he wa
nted something meaningful, a woman he could talk with about something other than celebrity gossip. He didn’t seem to meet them in his social circles, and the more he tried to extract himself from the business and finance world, the more he realized how entrenched he was. He felt a profound change was on the horizon.
Grief was transforming in that way. The first six months after her death, Arrigo’s emotions were unmoored and he struggled with guilt and even a mild depression. He read through all of the weekly letters his mother sent him, berated himself for not visiting her more and questioned why he ever lived with his father after the divorce.
As he drifted in the wreckage of his own life and the visceral knowledge of his own mortality, he sensed limits for the first time. Life wasn’t simply a playing field for fun and entertainment, it was vulnerable and fragile, filled with pain and confusion. That insight separated him from most of his friends and in that loneliness he took stock of his life.
It was his a former tech client that helped him channel his grief into a project and slowly, a new self emerged. In his desperation to find a connection to his mother, he started a legacy in her name with an online component that he was launching in Venice.
CASEY TILTED her head back to look at the starry sky and then considered the antipasto dish. She reached for the prosciutto wrapped around the purple skin of a fresh fig. She had never eaten one before and the fig’s smooth texture and crunch of sweet seeds dissolved in her mouth. She looked toward the Italian and held out the platter. When he got up from his chair, she felt like she was in a movie scene. He was tall and muscular and even the way he walked was mesmerizing - there was an energetic vibe to his movement, and by the time he arrived at her table, she wasn’t thinking about her past at all.
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