Winter In Venice (Escape To Italy Book 3) Read online

  In one of the rooms, surveying Giorgione's Tempest, Lucy found herself near an English couple.She commented casually on the artwork and hearing her Irish accent, they immediately introduced themselves, and the trio quickly fell into small chat about all they’d seen in the city.

  “We’re here as an early Christmas present to ourselves,”the man who was called Max explained, beaming at his wife.“It’s our first outing since our daughter was born.”

  “Oh! You have a daughter?”Lucy had always loved the idea of having a little girl.“How old?”

  “Eight months.”His wife, Naomi was clearly a proud mum, pulling up pictures on her smartphone to show off. Lucy made appropriate compliments on the little girl’s cute looks and wide smile.“Is it hard to be away from her?”

  Naomi hesitated for a moment.“A little,”she confessed. Max looked like he wanted to say something but wisely didn’t, and Lucy guessed that it was harder than the mother wanted to admit. She tactfully changed the subject.“What’s been your favourite sight in Venice so far?”

  “I think the bell tower at St. Mark’s Square,”Naomi said dreamily.“The view makes you feel like you’re looking at a postcard. It’s such a romantic city.”

  Yes, it is,Lucy thought with a pang. She couldn’t help envying the couple a bit for their romantic trip. It was clear they were relishing the time spent together, without the demands of parenthood to interrupt their time together. She supposed that was one perk to the single life—no worries about other people imposing on your routine, especially“people”of the nappy-and-bottle variety.

  Naomi was asking Lucy about her own trip to the city, and she struggled for a moment to explain what she was doing there. She finally settled on the generic half-truth“it’s a gift to myself”rather than explaining that she was there to forget about love lost. It seemed like too sad a tale to share with strangers, especially those celebrating their own happy romance.

  She had a bit of time in between tours to grab lunch, and found herself munching on a hot panini and coffee at a tiny cafe. Afterward she joined the tour through the Guggenheim collection and quickly lost herself in room after room of art. The variety presented made it impossible to get bored, and the tour almost seemed to end too quickly.

  Outside the weak afternoon light signalled the close of day. Tourists were moving in groups to find dinner, attend an evening mass at one of the city’s cathedrals, or rent a gondola for a private cruise up and down the canals to view the holiday lights.

  Not quite yet ready to move on to dinner so early, Lucy opted to hire a gondolier and relax on the canals.

  She was glad she’d bundled up warmly, because the air off the water was definitely cold. However, the view of San Marco at night by boat was worth the chill. One of Lucy’s favourite childhood memories was that of piling into the family car with her parents and siblings, and driving around their hometown to look at the Christmas light displays on homes and businesses. Lucy and her sisters had given imaginary ratings to the displays as they passed and debated seriously about the merits of each display, awarding scores to the decorations based on imagination, colourfulness, and sheer size of the displays.

  Some of their favourite houses went all out, with all of the trees in the front gardens ablaze in ropes of lights and lighted figures across the driveway and even on the roof. As a child Lucy had found it delightful; now she thought about how much work those displays must have entailed.

  The displays in Venice evoked a similar feeling of awe.

  Large lighted stars hung above her, seemingly suspended in thin air. Strings of lights outlined windows and doorways or encircled trees on balconies. Here and there a business had a brightly lit nativity or other display in their shop windows. Most of the bridges, too, were brightly lit for night, and the cathedrals all featured lighting of their own. Christmas music floated down the canals from nearby businesses; though most of it was in Italian, Lucy recognised the tunes and hummed along.

  Her good-natured gondolier hummed too and occasionally sang along to the tunes.

  By the end of her forty-minute boat ride, Lucy had pretty well lost the feeling in her nose and fingertips, but her heart and soul felt warmer. She asked the gondolier for a nearby restaurant recommendation and thanked him warmly, rubbing her hands together as she walked down the street. The joyful Christmas spirit combined with the obvious magic of the city was improving her mood more and more with every passing hour.

  She ducked into a trattoria playing an Italian rotation of sacred festive music; Lucy recognised the tunes of“Silent Night”and several other hymns that had played on heavy rotation during her childhood. She smiled at the thought of how she had squirmed through Mass services at church while thinking ahead to opening presents!

  The waiter brought appetisers and wine and soon returned to the table with a hearty order of seafood risotto, crusty bread and marinated anchovies. Lucy ate her fill and lingered at the table afterward, enjoying a strong cup of espresso despite the late hour. She nibbled her tiramisu and asked the waiter to add an extra bottle of wine to her order; she could take that back to one of her sisters in Dublin as a Christmas gift.

  Satisfied and laden down with a bag containing her wine, Lucy strolled slowly down the street, lost in thought. She felt almost giddy from the fun of the day and of course, the delicious food. She was so lost in thought (and more than a little tipsy) that for a moment, she imagined Dominic standing at the corner of the narrow streets, waiting for her.

  She sighed to herself and continued walking. My imagination is just not going to let me be, she thought ruefully. Now I know what unrequited love means. Even a full day of great fun and good food can’t get a person out of your head. You still see them everywhere you go.

  At the hotel she tucked the wine safely in her suitcase, and drew a hot bath scented with plenty of lavender and chamomile. Soaking blissfully in the bubbles, she considered what to do the following day.

  First, a lazy breakfast. Second, shopping; she was already compiling a mental list of things to look for in the little shops: a leather-bound journal for Dad, some blown-glass trinket for Mum (maybe a Venetian mask or a paperweight)?, perhaps a knitted scarf for her younger sister. And of course, if I find some little things for myself, too, that wouldn’t be half bad.

  Her eyes fell on her smartphone, sitting on the bathroom counter. It was tempting—oh so tempting—to call Dominic’s number, just to see what he was doing. They hadn’t spoken since the breakup, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t call just to say hi. She might get his voicemail, and then that would solve a lot of the awkwardness of having an actual conversation. And wouldn’t he be surprised when he heard she was calling from Venice.

  She composed a message in her head: Hi, Dominic,I’m in Venice and I was just thinking of you—remembering all the fun we had here last year. God, no—that was far too needy. Maybe: Hey Dominic, was just thinking of you and wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. Too casual? What about: Hi Dominic, hope you’re doing well. Maybe we could grab a coffee some time and catch up?

  She half reached out for the phone before she pulled her arm back. Nope. Don’t do it. This trip was about getting over heartbreak, not inviting it back in. Besides, she wasn’t sure what might be worse—having to talk to Dominic and dealing with a stilted conversation, or leaving a message that he might not return. After all, it was possible he didn’t want to speak to her at all, and calling him might just confirm that for good—something she’d rather not deal with, in all honesty. Or, he might return her call with some news about a new girlfriend—something she definitely didn’t want to hear about. At least if she didn’t call, she didn’t have to face the complications of a conversation. Dominic could stay safely tucked away in her memories and one day he would be just that—a memory.

  Lucy finally drained the bathtub and wrapped herself up in a fluffy robe before settling down in bed with a magazine. She was drowsy from the wine and the warm water, and it was easy to put Dominic out of
mind and curl up for bed.

  She dreamed that night of standing on the bridge last winter with Dominic in the snow, hand in hand as they locked the padlock.

  But in the morning she didn’t remember her dreams, and she whistled cheerily to herself as she got ready for another day.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday morning dawned colder than the previous day, but Scott wasn’t daunted in the least. He’d already bounced back from the disappointment of his failed proposal at St. Mark’s Square, and he’d moved on to an even better idea: a romantic candlelit dinner near Rialto Bridge, followed by a stroll along some of the quieter streets nearby.

  There, under a starry sky, away from all the hustle and bustle of the tourist crowds, he would get down on one knee and propose to the love of his life. He could already picture the scene in his head; he’d replayed it a dozen times since he got out of bed that morning.

  But first, the day ahead promised plenty more sightseeing in the historic city. Rachel, enamoured of Italian art, was eager to tour the Gallerie dell'Accademia, which boasted centuries’worth of Italian paintings, frescoes, sculptures and more. For his part Scott didn’t really know the difference between the various periods and styles of painting, nor did he understand the political significance of some of the pieces, but Rachel was having fun and for her sake he made an effort to have fun, too. It was hard to concentrate on the tour, though, when he kept thinking forward to the table he’d booked for the evening.

  Even as they sat at lunch, he was only half-listening to Rachel as she chattered on eagerly about the art they’d seen. Inside he was playing out the proposal as he intended it to happen:

  First, they would go to the restaurant. Scott had found one near the impressive Rialto bridge; if you sat near by windows you had an excellent view of the bridge, and for the festive season the bridge was lit up much like the rest of the Grand Canal.

  They would enjoy a lovely dinner, then take a walk across the bridge and enjoy the sight of the holiday lights across the Grand Canal. Perhaps, if the mood struck them, they would take a gondola down the canal and marvel at the lights from the water.

  Then, they would take a quiet walk through the less-populated city streets. Then, on a quiet bridge, away from the crowds, Scott would get down on one knee, pull out the ring, and…

  “Earth to Scott.” He snapped out of his reverie to see that Rachel was staring at him, looking slightly bemused. He realised she must have asked a question, and he felt his ears reddening a little.“Sorry, babe, I was lost in thought. What were you saying?”

  She smiled andsaid,“I was suggesting we do a little shopping today. Instead of hitting another museum. I could tell you were a bit bored with the last one.”

  Scott winced a little.“Was it that obvious?”

  She laughed out loud.“It’s okay. I know I’m the one who’s crazy about Italy; I know you’re not as big of a fan.”

  “We can do whatever you want today,”he promised, and meant it. He wanted her to enjoy herself, and more importantly, he wanted her to be in good spirits for their dinner date. He patted his coat pocket once more and followed her out of the cafe, and through the city streets.

  Shopping proved to be a bit of an interesting experience. Rachel was clearly enjoying chatting with the shopkeepers in Italian, and she found several small items that she wanted to purchase: a leather bag, a cashmere scarf with a gossamer texture and a price tag to match, and some beautiful tiny glass birds, which were wrapped carefully and placed in a sturdy box for safekeeping.

  By the time they had finished touring the shops and returned Rachel’s purchases to the hotel, it was time to get ready for dinner. As usual, Scott was astounded by how a few simple changes could turn Rachel from a daytime tourist into an evening beauty.

  She emerged from the bathroom with her hair swept back up from her face, showing off a pair of diamond earrings he had bought her for her birthday. She’d added a little makeup but not much—she didn’t need it—and swapped out her sweater for a silky, low-cut black top. She’d kept the warm black pants and boots, though, and bundled up in a thick scarf, gloves and coat.

  “It’s freezing out here!”she exclaimed, as their water taxi took them to the restaurant.“I’m so glad we’re not going on a gondola tour tonight.”

  “Yeah, me too,”Scott echoed, privately disappointed. Well, there’s always tomorrow…

  As promised, the Rialto Bridge was aglow with lights that changed color as festive tunes played over the water. Scott and Rachel oohed appreciatively at the sight and hurried into the restaurant to their table.

  The waiter frowned when Scott mentioned his reservation.“We seem to have had some issues with our booking, sir,”he said, and Scott’s heart sank.“Somehow there are mixups with the seating. That table is not available this evening.”

  His expression made it clear he wasn’t going to offer any further explanations or help, so Scott tried politely,“Could you find us another table then? I promised my girlfriend a romantic dinner tonight.”

  The man looked irritated at this request, as though the endless romantic trials of visiting tourists were of no concern to him. However, he consulted his book and grouchily conceded that he did have an available table.

  “This way,”he said, marching off briskly without a backward glance, and Scott and Rachel glanced at each other in concern. Nonetheless, Scott was determined to make the most of the night, and they hurried after the man to the table he indicated.

  Scott thought that it was almost as if the guy had deliberately selected the worst table in the restaurant. Tucked into a dark corner, it offered no view of the bridge whatsoever, but a very good earful of the clamour from the kitchen.

  He reached under the table and squeezed Rachel’s hand in apology.“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know this would happen. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “No, this is fine.”She busied herself studying the menu. Scott also buried himself in the menu, and when a waiter appeared to take their order, they decided to start with a round of appetisers. This waiter also seemed a little on the surly side, but Scott decided it could just be the busy evening—the restaurant was packed—and tried to brush it off.

  Wine appeared on the table in short order, and Scott and Rachel tried to strike up a conversation. It was difficult to chat quietly with the din of their fellow diners and the noise from the kitchen, and after a while they fell silent. Some time passed before it occurred to Scott that their appetisers had yet to appear. He finally caught the attention of their waiter and inquired about their order, only to be met with a terse,“I’ll check”before the man disappeared without a second look.

  Scott glanced at Rachel, but she was carefully studying the other diners, trying not to let on that she was disappointed. After what seemed like forever, the waiter finally returned with a plate of bread and olive oil and fried meatballs—all rather lukewarm, now, after what Scott suspected was a long period sitting on a side counter waiting to be served. They picked halfheartedly at the food and waited for their Secondi to be served.

  The second round of the meal came out with decidedly more speed, but when the waiter set Rachel’s dish down in front of her, she said something haltingly in Italian. The waiter did a double-take and apologised curtly, whisking the dish away. Scott didn’t need a translation to know that whatever the man had brought out was definitely notthe risotto dish she’d ordered.

  Next the waiter brought out another dish, but after a couple of bites she had to signal him back.“Sorry,”she said,“it’s just that this has cuttlefish in it, and I asked for the chicken.”

  This time the waiter was duly embarrassed, and muttered several apologies as he took away her plate. In the meantime another order had arrived—polenta with porcini and sausage—and Rachel nibbled a bit at it while they waited. She urged Scott to go ahead and eat his, but he felt bad eating when she was having so many issues with her own order.

  Finally the waiter brought out fresh risotto with
chicken, and Rachel dug in. By now Scott’s own food was growing cold, but he ate as much of it as he could anyway. When Rachel finished eating he leaned across the table and whispered,“Do you want to order dessert?”

  “No thanks!” She shook her head and glanced at the kitchen, as though expecting to see the waiter again.“No, this was terrible. Let’s just go.”

  They paid and left, Rachel shivering in the cold. Scott quickly abandoned the idea of either a gondola ride or a walk; he guessed she wouldn’t enjoy either, and after their disastrous meal, he felt terrible that he hadn’t planned out better entertainment for the night.

  Back at the hotel, he scrolled through Internet listings of local late-night happenings while Rachel warmed up with a hot shower. When she emerged, wrapped up in a cozy robe, he queried,“Would you want to go out again? We could catch a late-night movie, maybe, or go to one of the local bars for a drink?”

  Rachel made a face as she crawled into bed.“Ugh, I don’t think so. I’m so worn out, and it’s so cold. Let’s just stay in for the rest of the night, okay?”

  “Okay.”Scott closed his laptop and decided to take a quick shower to warm up, too; Rachel was right about the temperature outside. By the time he emerged ten minutes later, however, soft snores could be heard coming from Rachel’s side of the bed. Stifling a sigh of disappointment, he switched off her bedside lamp and crawled in beside her.

  The ring box was still waiting in his coat pocket. Scott thought sadly of his ruined evening and wondered if the following day would provide any better chances for the proposal he wanted to make.

  Come on, Venice, he thought desperately, show me a little romantic magic before we go home.