Magic Island: What Happens In Venice: Book Three

by Diana Cachey

  But that was not Rich. Richard had never been to Venice. And although she was merely complying with his wishes, it struck her as heartless to leave him there in the Grand Canal, all alone, with no friends in Venice, with no memories of it.

  Back in the present, she looked out at the hills of Cortina. Next she gazed up at the stone cliffs that towered above and around her.

  Here is where he should be. This should’ve been Richard’s final resting place.

  Rich loved to climb. She’d met him one summer in the Rocky Mountains while working a wildflower festival. She knew he was in love with her, but they’d always remained only friends. Platonic. Good at separating her heart from men that way, she chose to stay single herself and had never been intimately involved with Rich.

  Yes, Ricko was a whacko of sorts. A nut job but a friend she loved deeply. He was young and similar to Matteo in many ways. The substance abuse, the excessive alcohol, his cursing, his constant escape from reality. His lack of ambition despite a myriad of skills and all of it covering a huge heart.

  The bigger the heart, the bigger the drugs, Barbara used to think. Now she knew better. Sober, she knew it was a myth. You could have a huge heart and be sober. One day at a time.

  No one else was ever really certain Rich “offed himself,” with the combination of pills and alcohol he ingested it could’ve easily been an accident. Only Barbara knew the truth.

  She knew for sure that Rich had killed himself because he left her a note. He called her moments before he died but she didn’t answer. They hadn’t spoken since he violently threatened to beat her with a belt in a drunken rage. After his black-out rampage, they never spoke again — for weeks then months — except when he spoke to her through that suicide letter.

  Barbara wiped a few tears off of her cheek. The Cortina sun reflected off the snow and dried them. She rested on a boulder and prayed.

  Her mind drifted back to that palazzo dock. The memory of it began to swallow her. In her mind’s eye, she saw it all except the skeleton sculpture, which was missing. She had prayed a long time for God to remove that horrible picture of the skull sculpture, just as she’d prayed for God to remove the terrible memory of Rick’s body, lying stiff on his floor when she found him. God had removed both pictures from her mind.

  She was left with those glittering reflections on the Grand Canal.

  When Barbara turned to leave, she heard movement in the brush.

  Wait. Is that a man there?

  She closed her eyes and saw the Grand Canal scene differently this time. Today in her memory was tall man standing across the Grand Canal on the night she tossed ashes into it. She opened her eyes then thought she heard Massimo’s voice whisper, “Close your eyes again.”

  She did. When she closed them, she saw him. There he stood, Massimo, across the canal from her, watching her as spread the ashes. He smiled.

  “What? How?” She opened her eyes wide.

  “Close them again,” he repeated.

  When she closed them, she saw the scene exactly as it had been that day, the skeleton sculpture returned, but next to it was a young man.

  She remembered now. Had Massimo been there? Had her mind’s eye blocked him out when God blocked the memory of that day’s horrors?

  How many things do our eyes a and memories block out? She wondered and opened her eyes. This time she heard nothing. She laid in the snow and closed her eyes again anyway.

  Lying on the ground, she stretched out her arms, flapped them and opened her legs to make a snow angel. She stopped with legs spread, arms out and it felt as if she floated into the sky.

  She saw Massimo, clothed in the Venetian historical costume. The light blue silk she’d first fantasized about him wearing but never got the chance to see in person.

  She next felt him lay upon her, his legs between hers. He wore a white curled wig and bit her neck, hard. Like a vampire, he sucked on it. She loved it. He looked in her eyes and smiled.

  “I am not a vampire,” Maasimo’s spirit said and he moved her hair off her face. “There are no more vampires in Venice.”

  His laced ruffled shirt sleeves brushed over her eyelids. He kissed her over and over. Then he whispered, “Open.”

  She open her eyes and watched him pull his shirt tails out of his pants and unbutton the two rows of pant buttons. He pulled up both of their shirts and lay his bare chest upon hers. “Darling, don’t you want me? Like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come. Home. I’m waiting.”

  Barbara moved with the same Rouge-like vampire speed to answer Maasimo’s ghostly command and comply with his wishes.

  When she reached the hotel, she saw Louisa and Rouge had already checked out.

  “We’re outta here,” said Louisa sitting in the lobby with Rouge. “We miss Venice.”

  “We miss Venetians,” Rouge added.

  “Me too,” said Barbara.

  “We knew you’d agree,” said Louisa pointing to Barbara’s packed bag.

  Apparently, while the ghost-Massino had appeared to Barbara, Tom had called Rouge and begged her to come stay at his palazzo — for the rest of her trip while his wife was away, something he’d sworn many times he’d never do. Louisa had found courage to call Antonin and he’d made a date to meet with her for drinks at her apartment.

  Now all they needed to do was get home.

  Home.

  Home to Venice.

  On the way from the train station to her apartment, Louisa picked up prosciutto, fresh buffalo mozzarella, rosemary breadsticks, pickled onions, a jar of anchovies, brown eggs (she never saw white ones in Italy ever), a container of green olives (the pitted kind that come in a plastic bag here), capers, tuna, a bottle of tomato sauce (nobody she knew made their own sauce when you could buy real good stuff already bottled) and a package of spaghetti. The plan was to make some Venetian appetizers, or cicchetti, and some southern Italian-style spaghetti for her very special guest —the mystery man from Burano who she’d made out with in the thrift-shop attic.

  Well, a little more than made-out, thought Louisa. Her legs weakened at the mental picture of Antonin’s shirtless chest and his gentle touch, pushing down inside her jeans.

  “Woah,” she said aloud and stopped in her tracks. She tried to fix her attention on those sexy moments with him. “Wow,” she said, shook her head and realized that she was way beyond smitten.

  This ain’t just lust, she thought, but how can it be anything but? I hardly know this man. I don’t know him at all.

  Louisa laughed at how most of the women she knew rarely thought about this distinction between lust and love. Or even cared about the distinctions between wishful thinking and desperation.

  Louisa had soften found it strange that if a woman was lonely and got enough attention from a man, it was love. If they got a good feeling in their groin in his presence or if the man kissed them sweet, it was love. If he said the charming words they wanted to hear, or dressed the right way they liked, had a high-paying job or a fancy car or house, it was love. When it was love, those women often decided that the man was hers. No gal pal better disdain it or question that it was love either. You could lose a friend real fast if you questioned a new “love.”

  Louisa previously had concluded that men might be more discerning of their choices in partners. But were they? Women often seemed to jump into love if the man charmed her or bought her gifts or if his bedroom manner was spot on, as in G-spot on. But weren’t men the same?

  She’d noticed that after she entered law school, men flocked to her in greater numbers. A friend even asked if it bothered her that men might be chasing her because she was becoming a lawyer and might have more money soon. Louisa replied that she might as well use whatever she had, including a well-paid profession. After all, a man would use it, would he not?

  Maybe Louisa was over-thinking all of this love versus lust stuff. Maybe her less discerning sisters — not her own actual sister who was even more ridiculous about her
analysis of such things — but those other sisters, “the sisters” such as best friends, sort of friends, or the rest of the female gender. Were they right that it could all be love if you just wanted it to be love? Where had all of that being in love stuff, like with Matteo, gotten her anyway? If she’d left it at lust and not tried to make a romance or a relationship out of it with Matteo, she’d be better off today. If she hadn’t tried to love him, fix him, she wouldn’t now be in emotional pain. She wouldn’t care that he might be married, that he’d definitely gone and made — not one but two — children with another woman. Instead of sexually yearning for him, Louisa pined for him like she always did, like she did years ago, even when she knew it would not or could not work out with him. Could it? No, it couldn’t. She got what many women who met him got —nothing. Why hadn’t she listened to the ones who wondered what she saw in the rogue charmer in the first place?

  But today lucky Louisa waited for another Venetian, well, technically not a Venetian, because he lived on a lagoon island, Burano, closer to the mainland than to Venice. She’d snooped a bit and learned about his patriarchal birth, his bloodline being tied to the ruling aristocracy of Venice and even to a Doge. Besides the home in Burano, his family had real estate holdings all over Venice proper and even some apartments lining the Grand Canal. She couldn’t wait to see some of the houses that his aristocracy built. Most of all, she couldn’t wait to see that chest again.

  She went about preparing for his arrival while listening to some classical music -- for this special guest only Vivaldi would do -- and began to make the cicchetti. She made several varieties. Some with prosciutto wrapped around rosemary breadsticks, others with prosciutto wrapped around squares of soft mozzarella and still others of sliced mozzarella drizzled lightly with fine Tuscan olive oil.

  Next she put the brown eggs into a small sauce pan of boiling water and retrieved olives, capers, tuna, onions and anchovies. She filled another larger pot with water, added salt and placed it on the large burner to boil water for the pasta.

  Assembling the next set of cicchetti, she wrapped anchovies around cocktail onions and secured each one with a toothpick. She topped other onions with olives or slices of cheese. She took the boiled eggs out of one pan of water and added pasta to the other. She’d decided to pre-boil the pasta and cool it until time to serve when she would plop it back into more hot water, a trick she learned from Matteo.

  See, my love for Matteo was worth something. If only in the fact that she learned a few tricks for cooking Italian food. And for cooking up a sweat in the bedroom.

  She hated that thoughts of Matteo kept disturbing her thoughts of the handsome Buranese man. Louisa feared that these romantic interjections of Matteo occurred because he was sending her telepathic messages.

  What if he’d followed her to the thrift shop? What if Matteo saw her at the window in hot embrace with that Burano man? Didn’t he go to work? Didn’t he need to spend time being a father? He didn’t have to time to spy on her all day, every day, did he?

  Yet she knew he’d spied on her at least once on this trip like the time she met with Massimo. Matteo had gone into a rage when he saw her with him, although he never mentioned it again. He hadn’t said so, nor had Massimo, but it was clear they had a past together, a troubled past. To Louisa, it seemed, they hated one another. Almost like sibling rivalry. Wasn’t every Venetian, or at least the pure blooded ones, connected to everyone else in Venice in one way or another? It wasn’t like in America where people came from all over the world. Venetian family ties dated back. Way back. Centuries.

  She shook her head, tried to dismiss concerns of Matteo and focused on cooking. She finished up the cicchetti by peeling the shells off of the boiled eggs, slicing them lengthwise in four pieces and laying them out on a large fish-shaped platter with the rest of the cicchetti. Next she drizzled olive oil on the eggs and garnished each of them with olives, capers, small pieces of anchovy and sprinkled them with pepper or paprika. She topped the platter with foil put it in the fridge. Next she drained the pasta, put it in a bowl and used a plate as a cover. Tupperware isn’t used much in kitchens so lacking in space. You use what is on hand in the cupboard.

  She timed the production perfectly with plenty of time left to get bella figura for her sexy date with the mysterious Buranese. Was it a date? Making dinner for a stranger who she kissed passionately, one who had felt her breasts? Did that qualify as a date?

  Or was she simply waiting on a man whom she’d spoken to twice, once on the phone and once in a dusty attic?

  She jumped in a shower that seemed to take forever to get to the steamy temperature she needed to get her skin rosy, blood-flushed. She’d bought camomile shampoo and conditioner to highlight her blonde hair, so beloved by the Italians. There was no time for a sea veggie bath but that was probably good. She didn’t want any unexpected visitors like that ghost or seagull or mermaid. As she left the shower, she thought she heard a knock at the door.

  Damn, she thought, I washed my body with the sea soap. Don’t tell me ghosts come knocking when my shower has been rocking with only these sea soap suds.

  She decided to dismiss her thoughts of ghosts, after all, Antonin wasn’t expected for another hour. She pulled out the new lace bra and panties she’d bought at Intimissimi, her favorite Italian lingerie shop. Burgundy-colored lace, in honor of Madame De Carlo of the crimson crushed-velvet Parisian cafe. Louisa was certain Madame would never wear brash red but only a hint of it. Louisa knew how much Venetians loved red, black and white, so she decided to wear black jeans and a white sweater with black trim. But underneath she’d be scarlet.

  Feeling amorous, Parisian reflections did that to her, she decided not to dress until the last minute. She’d parade around the apartment in lingerie, dancing slow to one of her favorite Venice songs, Rondo di Venezia, in bra and panties. Why not high heals too? She went to slip on a pair and decided to take it up a notch with the fur-trimmed Bruno Magli stiletto boots that she couldn’t resist buying at seventy-five percent discount.

  As she zipped up the first boot, she heard the knock again.

  Was it Rouge or Barbara? Had Antonin arrived early?

  If it was one of the girls, it would be fun to answer as is, in lace burgundy lingerie and one-high-heeled boot. If it were Antonin, it might intrigue him, but perhaps a robe should be draped over the lingerie.

  When the knocking became more insistent, she grabbed a long white menswear-inspired cotton shirt and ran to answer it.

  “Hello, who’s there?” She decided to ask at the last minute. A male voice responded and it was not just any male voice.

  “It’s me, my beauty.”

  Matteo. He sounded angry. She reasoned that the sight of her in this almost finished sexy attire would either soften or infuriate him. If he saw the cicchetti in the fridge, he would rightly assume she expected a guest and, based on her attire, said guest was a young and male. If she let Matteo inside, she couldn’t let him anywhere near the fridge.

  She knew from experience, however, that if she didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of reason for him to break it down.

  “Hold on,” she said not knowing what to do next but trying to buy time, which she knew would be futile.

  “Open the fucking door,” he yelled.

  She opened it and did her best to look fetching and only for him.

  “What are you doing dressed like that?”

  Wrong response. This was going to be bad. Maybe.

  “I bought some new lingerie and wanted to feel sexy in my own home,” she said.

  It worked, he softened, although he said, “For some man?”

  “Maybe.”

  He smiled.

  “You are a man, are you not?”

  “Don’t lie to me Louisa,” he said but still was unable to take his eyes off what was showing between the button holes of the shirt that remained unbuttoned.

  “Like I said, feeling sexy in my own (this time she paused)
home.”

  “In your own” he repeated picking up her implication. “You want I watch or help?”

  In response, she said nothing but lifted a smile to one side of her face and pulled her shoulders back.

  “Or I can go?”

  She wanted him to go. And she didn’t dare look at the clock for fear he would notice. He’d presume she had an appointment and might get furiously jealous. Damn him, I hate him, she thought.

  Yet she had to admit she was aroused. He, besides being a brute, was a drop-dead gorgeous stud. He was also as witty, charming and sexy as they come.

  God please help me, tell me what to say, she found herself begging.

  Where did that thought come from? It didn’t matter for suddenly she knew what to say.

  “I heard something about you, Matteo.”

  His smiled dropped. He didn’t ask her what she heard. He simply slipped his cold hands inside her shirt and pulled her by her waist towards him.

  “I heard you have two daughters, and one of them was just born.”

  The effect on him was different then she expected. Instead of retreating, he got hard. He kissed her.

  The effect on her was also different then she expected. She got hard and kissed him back.

  After that her odd manor of dress made no difference. It was as if she answered the door in Las Vegas and the maid, unflappable, had simply responded, “I’ll be back later.”

  But Matteo wasn’t coming back later.

  Louisa didn’t know how much time they had together but she knew one thing for sure — if Antonin knocked on that door while Matteo was there, one or all of them might soon be dead. She also knew that if Matteo climaxed, he would try to hurt her for the remark about his newborn daughter and leave abruptly afterwards, which, for once, is what she wanted to happen.