I return to the bar and search the place, but Lucy’s nowhere to be found. Where could she be? Finally, I settle for my last resort. I stand outside Il Campo and wait for her to leave—or return.
Forty minutes later, I’m more or less sober, and panic is setting in. The bar is emptying. We need to get back to the hotel—which is where, exactly? Damn Lucy!
The last patrons tumble out at two a.m., the quartet of beautiful Dutch girls.
“Hey,” I say, “have you seen Lucy?”
“Yes,” one of them says. “About two hours ago. She left with that guy in black.”
I hear the squeak of a door and turn to see a man in a white shirt padlocking the entrance.
“Wait,” I say to him. “My cousin’s still in there.”
He shakes his head. “No, signorina. It is empty.”
My mind reels. What am I supposed to do now? What’s the protocol for girls’ night out? What happens when a friend hooks up with someone? Will she come back here for me? Do I wait? Or are we on our own now? Why didn’t I ask her earlier? And why the hell didn’t we borrow Poppy’s phone?
I wait another twenty minutes. Campo Santa Margherita is nearly empty now, and I don’t have a clue which direction we came from. Even after three days, Venice is nothing but a labyrinth of canals to me. Where are my maps when I need them? I pull up the app on my phone, but without my glasses, it’s useless.
I clutch my head and spin in a circle. Slowly, I move in the direction I think we came from. I enter a narrow brick-walled lane. The light from the campo fades. A chill comes over me. Nothing looks familiar. Is this the way we came?
Raised voices spill from darkened apartments. My skin prickles with fear. I need to think, but my head is still foggy. I trot to the end of the calle, never mind that my feet are screaming in agony. I come to an intersection, where the lane branches off in three directions. “Damn it!”
It’s dark, and I can’t make out the street names on the corner walls. My heart races. I start down one corridor but reconsider. I spin around and scurry in the opposite direction. I’m struggling to breathe and my head feels light. I need Matt. He would talk me off the ledge, help me think clearly. But that’s not fair. I can’t use him to clean up my messes, like a handy stain-stick, and then toss him aside when my life is tidy.
A young couple approaches. I rush toward them.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice shaking. “Mi scusate.”
The man raises his hand and they continue on, as if I’m a beggar trying to hustle them.
I travel down another narrow calle, over a bridge. Does this look familiar? I don’t know! Damn it!
A memory finds me. I’m in kindergarten. School got let out early because of a winter blizzard. Daria and I are walking home, each rubber-boot step sinking into the drifting snow. Even though she’s right beside me, I can barely see my sister through the blinding storm. Fear grips me. We’ll never find our way home. “Don’t lose me,” I call to her, the wind stinging my face.
My big sister takes my mittened hand in hers. She tells me she’ll never leave me. Suddenly, I’m safe.
I slip my fingers into the pocket of my purse, pausing to touch the Saint Christopher medallion before lifting my phone. It’s evening back home. I squint until the star icon comes into focus. I blindly tap the first contact saved under Favorites. She answers on the second ring.
“Emmie?”
My throat squeezes shut. “Dar,” I finally manage to croak.
“Are you home? Please say yes. Nonna is an absolute wreck.”
I close my eyes. At this moment, alone in this alley, I would give anything to be back in my safe little Emville. “I’m lost.”
“What’s going on? Where are you?” Her voice carries the same urgency it did when I called her on New Year’s Eve eleven years ago.
“I’m in Venice. Lucy and I got separated.”
She lets out a sigh. “You’re okay. You’ve got the hotel address, right? Call an Uber. Don’t try to find Lucy. Just get back to the hotel.”
“Okay,” I say. I don’t remind my sister there are no vehicles in Venice. She’d feel silly. “Thank you, Dar.”
“Is that it?”
I peer down the lonely narrow alley. “No. There’s one more thing.” I lean against a stucco building, as if to fortify myself. “What happened to us, Dar?”
Silence fills the air. I rub my aching throat. “Did I do something to hurt you? Something that caused you to hate me?”
“What are you talking about?”
She knows. I know she does.
I swallow hard and force the words from my lips. “I love you, Dar.”
It’s awkward, expressing the sentiment we haven’t spoken for years.
She waits a beat. “Yeah, well, you need to get home, like, presto.
I’ve never seen Nonna so worked up.”
Drunken sadness grips me. In the distance, I hear footsteps. I steal a glance behind me. The silhouette of a man takes shape, forty feet away.
“Oh, God. I have to go.”
I slip my phone into my pocket. My heart speeds and I scurry onward. What was I thinking, stopping in this deserted alley?
The steps grow louder on the cobblestones. I quicken my pace. The footsteps quicken, too.
Ahead, another bridge appears. Where the hell am I?
My heels clomp against the concrete bridge. Fear claws the back of my neck and I break into a trot. And still, the footsteps grow nearer. My feet are on fire. I’m going to be kidnapped, or murdered, or sold into sex slavery. Is this my punishment for betraying Nonna?
The footsteps finally overtake mine. A half moan, half cry pushes past my throat, and I fear I’m going to pass out. A tall man looms at my side.
“Posso aiutarLa?” he asks.
I can’t breathe. My legs are shaking. I’m about to collapse.
“Can I help you?” he repeats, this time in English. His features are clouded in the dim streetlight.
I fight to keep from hyperventilating. “Leave me … alone.
Please.”
“It is okay,” he says. “I am not going to hurt you.”
Finally, I turn to him. His dark eyes shine down on me like candles in a cave. “You are lost?”
I push back the threatening storm in my chest. “I—I’m trying to find the Ca’ Sagredo Hotel, on Campo Santa Sofia.”
He rubs his chin. “Sì. I know this hotel. Come with me.”
“No. Just tell me.”
“It is very complicated on foot. It is much easier to show you.”
“Never mind,” I say, and turn to leave.
“Wait.” He lifts his hands. “I can see that you do not trust me. You are wise to be cautious.” He points in the opposite direction. “Go that way. When you reach the end, turn right, then left, and another left. You will cross a bridge—”
“Stop,” I say, interrupting. “Okay, just … please, show me.”
The stranger leads me down a dark calle. But something—instinct, perhaps—tells me I’m safe. He takes my elbow, and we turn down a narrow alley and cross a bridge. Five minutes later, the calle merges into yet another bridge. Like stepping into a lit room, it’s brighter here, almost cheery. A half dozen gondolas idle beneath the bridge, as if waiting for me.
He signals to a gondolier and helps me on board. I’m surprised when, instead of vanishing, he climbs aboard the gondola and takes a seat beside me.
“I am Giovanni,” he tells me. “Giovanni Ghelli.”
“I’m Em—Emilia Antonelli.” I cross my arms over my chest, keenly aware of my see-through blouse.
The gondolier pushes off, and the small boat drifts down the winding canal. We follow a moonlit path across the blue-black water, and the night’s cool breath chills my arms. I shiver. Giovanni takes off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.
“Better?”
I smile. “Grazie.”
Giovanni chats as we drift along, and I begin to relax. He tel
ls me of his job, waiting tables at his uncle’s restaurant.
“It is a pleasant job, but I prefer to hear about you. Where is it that you live?”
“New York,” I say, letting him assume it’s Manhattan, not Bensonhurst. He lifts his brows and nods.
“My dream is to visit California one day.” He clutches my arm. “No offense. I hear wonderful things about New York as well.”
I laugh, savoring the feel of his hand on my arm, the warmth of his thigh pressed against mine, the musky smell rising from his leather jacket. If Lucy could see me now! And Aunt Poppy, too. I’m trying, just like I’d promised. Perhaps it’s a sad statement about the pathetic little world Lucy claims I’ve created, but in twenty-nine years, this is, without a doubt, the most romantic moment in my life.
Twenty minutes later, the gondola coasts to a stop. I look up. The Ca’ Sagredo Hotel stares at me. My heart sinks. I want to stay right here, on this little wooden craft with this handsome Italian man who makes me feel safe.
“Here you are,” he says, his voice soft. “Just as I promised.”
“Grazie. You were a lifesaver.”
“It was my pleasure, Emilia. Truly.” He takes my hand and helps me off the gondola. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He smiles down at me, his eyes tender. My heart thumps in my chest. Should I invite him for a drink? What would my character do in this situation? What would Lucy do? I swallow hard. “Good night,” I say.
He lifts a hand. “Buonanotte.”
I walk toward the hotel, regret churning in me. Lucy will never forgive me for squandering this opportunity. I’m almost to the entrance when he calls to me.
“Emilia!”
I turn. “Yes?”
His head is tipped, and he’s wearing the slightest smile on his beautiful face. He crooks his finger.
My heart leaps. I make my way toward the boat, forcing myself to walk, not run. With each step, my confidence grows. This is who you’ve become. But you don’t have to die as that woman. Poppy’s right. I can be whomever I choose to be. And tonight, I choose to be bold.
I take one last step. I’m close enough to touch him. Before I have time to chicken out, I lift myself onto my tiptoes. I close my eyes and press my lips to Giovanni’s.
His body snaps back, as if he’s been Tasered. He swipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“La mia giacca,” he says, pointing to the jacket draped around my shoulders.
“Oh, God,” I say, the chafe of his whiskers burning my lips. “I thought you—” Humiliation sears my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” I yank off his coat and thrust it at him. “Thanks again,” I say with a curt wave.
I scurry toward the hotel as gracefully as I can, silently cursing myself. I am such an idiot!
“Emilia,” he calls.
I close my eyes and suck in a breath. When I turn around, his eyes twinkle in the moonlight.
“My wife,” he says. “She would not like it if she knew I gave away my jacket to a beautiful woman I shared my dreams with on a magical moonlit night.”
A slow smile makes its way to my face. Giovanni’s eyes lock on mine as the gondolier plants his oar on the dock and pushes off. I stand, watching my hero—my married hero—disappear into the darkness.
Chapter 26
Emilia
Day Four
Venice
I lie in bed, my notebook beside me, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of Giovanni and Daria and my cousin who’s still not home. In the wee hours of the morning, as dawn spins the room from charcoal to lilac, the door finally creaks open.
“Hey, Luce.” I prop myself onto my elbows.
“Shhh,” she says. Without bothering to change into her pajamas, she burrows beneath the covers and closes her eyes.
Where has she been all night? Is she okay? How did she get home?
I study her pale face in the feathered light of dawn. Her cheeks are puffy from too much alcohol and her hair is a tangled mess. But in sleep, with her lips slightly parted, I see a softness, a tender vulnerability she keeps hidden by day.
Did Lucy spend the night with the guy from Il Campo? I shudder, thinking of his friend Harry, groping me outside the bar. Is this the way it works, being single? Are we expected to hook up with strangers, without the slightest hint of affection? With no promise of tomorrow, no guise of love?
“Em?” Her sleepy voice cracks the silence.
“Yeah, Luce?”
“Do you think there’s any chance, any chance at all, that Poppy could actually break the curse?”
I look down at her. In the first blush of daybreak, her face glows with hope.
“I—I don’t know. I don’t really see how she could.”
She nods and drifts off to sleep.
I brush a lock of hair from Lucy’s face, a warrior in the treacherous minefield of Dating Land. Unlike me, this brave woman puts herself on the battlefield time and time again. Tears sting my eyes. Poor, poor Lucy. And cowardly me.
If there really is a curse, at this moment I swear I would do anything, anything, to break it.
An hour later I give up on sleep. I tiptoe across the wooden floor and quietly open the French doors. The sun mops the sky with pinks and purples. I step onto the balcony. The canal is quiet now, save for the gentle stroking of water against the concrete dock.
“Buongiorno.”
I startle. Aunt Poppy sits on a chaise, sipping coffee in her robe and bare feet. She smiles and beckons me with her open arms.
“Good morning,” I say, leaning down to give her a hug. “You’re up early.”
“I’ve never been one to waste a sunrise.” She pats the chaise and I ease in beside her. “Tell me about your evening,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “Did you and Luciana have a good time?”
I gaze out at the pink horizon. “It was pretty much a disaster, with a few lighter moments of disgust and humiliation. Oh, and a bit of terror thrown in for good measure.”
“It’s always tricky when you pretend to be someone you’re not,” Poppy says.
“What do you mean?”
“Last night you were disguised as Lucy.”
I turn to face her. “But you encouraged me.”
She wipes a smudge of mascara from beneath my eye. “Sometimes we must try on several personas before we find one that fits. You see, until you decide who you are not, you will never know who you are.” Her eyes twinkle. “Now go on. Continue with the evening.” I groan. “The bar was so crowded I couldn’t find Lucy. I got lost.
I had no idea how to get back to the hotel. Every street, every bridge, every square looked the same.” The panic from last night rekindles, and my breath quickens. I sit up straight. “It was dark, and I was …” I try to ignore the sly smile on Poppy’s lips. “I was hoping someone would help. But people passed me by. They just kept walking and …” I scowl at her upturned lips. “Why are you smiling? I could have been killed.”
She lifts her shoulders. “Yes, and I trust you won’t find yourself alone on the streets after a night of drinking ever again. It could have ended in disaster. But luckily, you kept your wits about you. You are a smart, capable woman who had an adventure.”
“An adventure? I was terrified.”
“You’ve learned a valuable lesson, one that will serve you well when you finally decide to be true to yourself.” She whispers now, as if she’s imparting some very wise and weighty advice. “Being lost is where the beauty lies. Lost in a book. Lost in someone’s eyes. Lost in a symphony so sweet it brings you to tears.” She smiles. “Lost in a beautiful floating city on a starry night. This is magical, yes? It’s being found that’s the disappointment.”
I was alone in Venice, justifiably petrified and panic-stricken. But could Aunt Poppy be right, too? I danced with some cool women. I stood up to a lecherous man. I made my way home safely. And aside from the fact that Giovanni was married, it was a magical night, sitting beside him on the gondola. I have a memory now, a story
to tell, perhaps a scene to re-create in a novel one day.
I gaze out at the rippling Laguna Veneta, dappled in rose and coral, and a sense of pride comes over me. For a moment, I allow myself to believe I really am capable, that when I’m back in Bensonhurst, in my safe little neighborhood surrounded by family and friends, I might seek to get lost once in a while. Because now I know that’s where the beauty lies.
“Next time I decide to get lost,” I say, “I’m doing it stone-cold sober. With my glasses!”
“Didn’t I just say you were smart?” Poppy’s laughter fades. “About your cousin,” she says. “Luciana is a different kind of lost. We must help her find herself. If we don’t, she just might disappear completely.”
L’ottico is busy Thursday morning. I sit in front of a mirror as the optician-slash-supermodel positions my new glasses on my face. She leans back and smiles.
“Bellissima!”
I catch sight of a man in a leather coat, watching us. “You will get used to the attention,” she whispers.
At ten o’clock, wearing my stylish new specs, we board the train at Venezia Santa Lucia station. I follow Poppy down the aisle. Her face looks almost ghostly this morning, in direct contrast to her flashy clothing. She’s sporting wide-legged yellow slacks and a white blouse imprinted with little bananas. A raspberry ascot is tucked into her collar. And despite this, people stare at me. How did I get talked into such conspicuous glasses? I want my comfy old wire-frames back, where nobody noticed me. I settle into my seat and reach into my purse for my beat-up glasses case.
Lucy’s hand seizes mine. “Don’t even think about it.”
I drop the case back into my purse. I have to admit, my vision’s great through these big lenses.
The train eases out of the station at 10:25 sharp. Aunt Poppy sits across from Lucy and me, her nose pressed to the window, waving good-bye to nobody in particular.
Soon, the islands of Venice draw out like a shadow behind us. I bid a silent farewell to the magical floating city with its endless canals and gilded sunsets, its maze of cobblestone streets and ancient bridges.
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 15
