Lagoon Lure: What Happens in Venice: Book Two (Trinity Ghost Story (Romance Novel & International Crime Mystery) 2)

by Diana Cachey

  “For both of us. This makes me smile,” said Louisa while trying to smile. A fake smile.

  Like new adventures in divergent towns or the same dog with a different collar, the unrelated information she’d received from the gondolier and Ana about Matteo, stunned her in the same way. It made her stomach flip.

  Louisa was the one who now needed booze. Booze, booze, get this woman some booze.

  All the rows of booths looked strikingly similar to Louisa when she walked into the pizzeria hoping to soothe the hurt, to numb how she felt about Matteo’s latest betrayal. Paneled or covered in woven fabric, the pizzeria booths were a comforting sight to her suffering soul.

  The sign said to wait, to which Venetians paid no heed, but Louisa stood there, waiting to be seated, dazed. Back home they’d wait to be seated before they devoured Candyland sundaes, here a line of eager takers wanted gelato servers to please them.

  Sip, sip on the fountain sodas, sparkling wine and Campari, it all sounded like the tick tock of the smiling mouse timepiece on her arm. The noon rush, the chitter chatter, the clinking of silver and of the porcelain cups which reminded her always of Italy, it all failed to stir her today. She barely heard the San Marco bells gong away in the piazza outside.

  Like the counter tender who stared at tile cracks during the lulls between customers, Louisa gazed at the piece of her hair that she held between her fingers and thought of afternoon work. She reflected on why she had come to Venice this time and her eyes dropped to her empty ring finger. She remembered the brushoffs from Venetians and her confrontation with the Buranese. A slow sad crawl crept across her body, a flush of grief, perhaps. She nodded to the young waiter who came through the doorway, seeing her alone and obviously unhappy about it.

  Food. That will help.

  It’s a myth that you can’t find good food in Venice. While it may not be the best pizza in Italy, Louisa discovered some mouth watering pies at this pizzeria by the Guidecca Canal. She had a nose for it when she searched beyond the typical tourist areas of Rialto and San Marco. Soon an individual sized pie arrived at her table, a Pizza Margherita, named for the woman who inspired the first pizza in Naples, with the colors of the Italian flag created by green basil, red tomatoes and white mozzarella cheese.

  After the pizza, she planned to savor rich molten chocolate slathered over ice cream burying a gooey fudge brownie topped with chocolate chips and whipped cream. She shouldn’t, she needed to watch the calories. Matteo never had to watch his weight. Instead of eating gelato, he’d crunch on hard candy, the kind with absolutely no fat. She despised him for it, scraping her pizza crust through a puddle of fragrant olive oil.

  Complete opposites in most ways except in bed, two birds not of the same feather, she and Matteo, had flocked together. A mismatch. He, the con. She, a worker bee. He, nobility living the easy life. She, blue collar ethic and two or more jobs. He ate his meat burnt, she liked it mooing. Louisa devoured a second slice of pizza dripping with cheese and said to the stranger at the next table, “Never marry a slim man.”

  Louisa now believed what Barbara had said all along, Matteo was not the answer to Louisa’s troubles any more than wine was an elixir. Life with Matteo wrought drama. It wasn’t even love at first sight. Not even close. Louisa’s first words to Matteo when she met him were, “You’re wasted.” Destiny changed for them that night, two drunks meet in a bar. Life changing? Perhaps too generous, but a course of destiny began that day that had absolutely no chance for success, but did succeed. In spurts. Temporarily.

  His relationship with Louisa, then a college foreign exchange student in Italy, began with him whispering “come to me,” crying from the darkness. “Forza, forza, coraggio” Strength, strength, courage, he pleaded. Louisa used to ask herself what she could do for him when his problems surfaced but they flooded over the embankments, overwhelmed and capsized her, smothered the romantic flames. She refused to do nothing, tried to manage it, manage him, manage the unmanageable. Impossibile. Because you can’t reason with the devil. She sat inside his head for years wondering how she got in there. Inside his mania, somehow she got stuck. Way too long.

  How long do I have to wade inside this mess? His mess, our mess, she’d thought over and over. Like a worm, she cut part of it off but it managed to grow back. Longer. The worm would be waiting with more sad but trues. Each time with more argument, passionate love, the belt, a kiss, the fist, a hug, a kick. Ping, pong, ping.

  Ping. Pong. Ping, she remembered Matteo say when angry, pretending to slap, slap, slap an imaginary foe. He didn’t always pretend. On the street, in bars, a fight could end at the hospital or in jail. He denied it, witnesses always mistaken, him clear even when looking for something to take him higher, habitually wanting to go higher.

  Heartbreak was the norm, balance was a myth. Louisa couldn’t mend conflict or relieve a sense of tragedy. Neither partner, Matteo nor Louisa, felt secure because persistent efforts by both of them to be reliable and responsible continued to fail. It would never work between them. Despite the lies he told, she always knew the truth. He loved her, but she couldn’t stay.

  She’d barely escaped four years ago. As her plane lifted off from Milan Milpensa that final time back then, she remembered the mountain vista breathing new life into her. She’d mentally said goodbye to her beloved Italian landscape below with only a few faltering regrets like the scattered rays of sun that flickered through clouds around the plane. On that flight, she was safe, she was departing. Cloud-topped mountains trailed away as she flew north. Leaving her reckless lover behind with a view of the snow-dusted Alps. Such is possibility, such is the meaning of success. The zigzag mountain switchbacks soon vanished much like the isolation in her heart.

  No, not this time. She would not leave Venice and its baroque, gothic, renaissance and ancient churches. She refused to bid adieu to pizza, pasta, pastries and leisurely sips of espresso from tiny cups. She didn’t want to say farewell to the priceless art and designer clothes. No, Louisa and her creme-soft leather boots would stay and strut daily with locals in the time-honored parade of their afternoon strolls. Decision made.

  Venetians manage to survive and rise to the top against all odds in too much water.

  I must be Venetian, thought Louisa. I am lucky, I know. I dodged the traps of a self-centered man, thought Louisa. Until now.

  Had his biological baby ruined everything?

  The question called for one thing and one thing only. Ice cream.

  Everyone said how they envied her trips to Venice. Whenever Louisa checked email, there was another friend crying jealousy. What else was new? She could understand their wishes and dreams about this enchanting place but couldn’t fathom why they didn’t come to Venice? Stay with her?

  She could certainly use the help. She needed companionship and protection. But not just anyone would do for that rescue mission. The person for the job was Rebecca.

  She checked to see if Rebecca was online for a chat. She’d whine, bribe, lure, use something to bring her to Venice. Fast.

  For Carnival? Louisa knew Rebecca couldn’t resist it but it wasn’t for a week or so. How do I get her here sooner?

  Rebecca was offline so Louisa pulled out her Italian cell phone. Surely the International code on the caller I.D. would get her friend to answer.

  “Pick-up, pick-up,” Louisa pleaded into her phone.

  “Ciao bella,” wailed Rebecca. “How’s Venice?”

  “I won’t go out. Freezing. Awful. Disgusting. Brutal cold.”

  “That doesn’t sound appealing.”

  “I need you to come now. Bring warm clothes.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m wearing too many layers to look sexy. I’m sleeping under three wool blankets. You can help, if you come for Carnival, bring an extra fur. I will pay.” Louisa had decided to start with the “whine and bribe.”

  “Hang in there, thaw out those hands and dancing toes. I’m counting on you to entertain when I arrive,” said
Rebecca.

  “I am broken but not broke. I will pay for your services.”

  “Snap to it, I want pictures of me dancing with giant costumed rats.”

  “Like the last time we went to Carnival.”

  “Rats, pronto.”

  “Yes, you got it. Miss Cleo is it? Isn’t that the costume you wanted?

  “Cleopatra has to get her Carnival on.”

  “I cannot do it without Cleo. I’m dyin here.”

  “Awwwww, honeyyy. I hope the cold doesn’t last much longer. I remember when I was there in December, the teeny apartment Franco rented for me warmed up quick with his body heat. Steamy hot. Yet, I loved walking around late at night. When it turns cold, no one is around. Probably not as cold as what you are dealing with.”

  “I’m becoming an alcoholic,” said Louisa.

  “Oh honey, I won’t be much assistance in that regard,” said Rouge.

  “No?” Louisa laughed.

  “I’m as pickled as they come. Plan to get more pickled on Venetian wine. Tell me what is so terrible?”

  “I’m hungry, sick and lonely,” said Louisa

  “Why honeyyy?”

  “I’m so sick that I cried for an hour. Seriously. Sobbed.”

  “And?”

  “I want to shoot myself for leaving my fur home. It sounds princessy of me, but even the nuns wear fur here.”

  “The nuns?”

  “The nuns wear fur. And they smoke.”

  “Where did you see that, pray tell?

  “At the church thrift store.”

  “Smoking? And wearing fur?”

  “They even had one for sale but I didn’t have enough euros on me for the fur. I’m thankful for the cashmere sweater they had.”

  “Things got better after?”

  “No. I got a horrible sore throat, burning nose. It’s numb.”

  “Go out long enough to go to San Marco for a delicious thick hot chocolate piled with real whip cream.”

  “I tried that. The bar guy who sold it to me was another conceited ass.”

  “Was he cute?”

  “I didn’t care. He acted that Venetian way they sometimes act, you know, like they’re too good. For anyone.”

  “The chocolate was still good?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Did you kick him with your pointed toe boots?”

  “I said to him, ‘ooh it’s really cold out,’ thinking he might be grumpy about the weather. He said, ‘not so bad.’

  “Not too bad? He must really have been grumpy.”

  “The idiot shrugged that smug way. ‘Oh fuck you’ is what he meant.”

  “Well, fuck him too.” Rouge laughed at the pun.

  “I gave him the same shrug after he gave me my change. I stomped away. Bastardo.”

  “Warm up as best you can. I won’t let you down.”

  “Rescue me, please.”

  “Rouge to the rescue. Carnival or bust,” referring to herself by her vacation name, Rouge., which Louisa gave her on their first trip to Paris together.

  “I tried to warm up, went to Via Garibaldi for a space heater and groceries, but the store was packed.”

  “Oh I hate those small grocers when the locals stock up.”

  “You couldn’t move with everyone oblivious to anyone else’s needs during the blizzard.”

  “Blizzard?”

  “An inch of snow. A blizzard to Venetians.”

  “Snow in Venice. Rare. Never seen it.”

  “More snow predicted.” Louisa was too angry at Matteo, burnt by his lies, and so ill that she failed to mention how someone had built cute little snow people outside her window.

  “I shall do my best to save you from the Venetian blizzard of two inches.”

  “I also forgot to bring my snow boots? Who would bring them? It never snows. Until now.”

  “Oh dear. There’s plenty more where those came from like at Bruno Maglie?”

  “Our favorite Italian boots?”

  “Yes. So what’s my plan for you? Shop.”

  “When I feel better. I’d buy a Mont Cler parka, you know, like all the rich bitches wear, if I could find one that covers my butt. My butt is bright red from cold.”

  “Now I’m almost laughing and I would be if I owned a Mont Cler. I hate those bitches.

  “Me too. I’m gonna take a hot shower. After that I’m gonna overdose on cold remedies and sleep aids until you get here. Hurry.”

  “Eat, that always works for you.”

  “I cooked a pound of tortellini in a gorgonzola, parmesan and prosciutto sauce.

  “Ate every bite?”

  “Yes then ate a whole box of chocolate hazelnut wafer cookies. I did get the space heater. My apartment is warmer.”

  “Two thoughts: First, where is Barbara? The Danieli?”

  “Yea, why?”

  “Go stay there.”

  “Good plan. What else?”

  “Second, call the landlord about the heat.”

  “Wait out the storm at the Danieli? I like it.”

  “The Calvary is coming. Hang in there. Rouge to the rescue.”

  Louisa hung up, packed a day bag in minutes and would soon head out of the damp apartment for the cosy warmth of a fine hotel room. Rebecca pictured Louisa’s soon to be grateful head cradled by the lush comfort of a Danieli pillow. On opposite sides of the pond, they both smiled in relief. As usual, Rouge had saved the day.

  Perfect. Rebecca turned Rouge (her vacation name) was coming to Venice for sure. Louisa decided not to tell Barbara about Rouge’s trip. Louisa realized she was keeping many secrets from her sister, who was clever and would figure it all out in due time. In due time but not today.

  Meanwhile, she would hunker down with Barbara in her luxury surroundings. Certainly Louisa must be a fool. Why did she need Rebecca to state the obvious and tell her to go there for heat and companionship? She phoned the Danieli, found Barbara, who invited her to stay there a few days. Then she emailed her landlord a polite, personal and detailed letter.

  Dear Ludovico,

  I have two questions:

  (1) Is there a way to check my heat meter? I have a terrible cold now and it is below freezing in Venice. So I turned up the radiator but it doesn’t get warmer. I don’t want to use too much heat and get a surprise bill. Can you help?

  (2) Also, can I block the boat door in the hallway of the building? No permanent fix is needed but wind is blowing it wide open and freezing air flowing into the building right outside my apartment. It is a shame to allow in the cold. A temporary solution, like I put a plank in front of the boat door to keep it closed, will stop this at once. Let me know if this is okay.

  Thank you, Louisa

  Her landlord’s quick response said nothing about helping her with the faulty radiator.

  Hi Louisa,

  Thanks for your suggestion. The boat door is not of our exclusive use or property, so we wouldn’t be allowed such a fixture. We’ll forward the administrator your proposition.

  By the way, I would be specialized in sustainable architecture and energy saving. I even called your neighbor. He will probably push your bell one of these days. His wife Silvia and himself are very kind and learned persons and know a lot about Venetian history and tradition.

  So maybe they might be useful with your ghost research.

  Kind regards. Ludovico

  Louisa sniffled and tried another email, this one more direct and less personal.

  To Ludovico

  Subject: Radiator

  Could you please tell me how to adjust the meter?

  The radiator is not putting much heat through the vents. Thx, L.

  Ludovico again responded promptly and to the point -- the point being that not much would be done about the radiator for some time.

  To: Louisa,

  Subject: Wood for bottom of boat door.

  We have just asked the administrator to plank over the door and he agreed. So that should be fixed, hopefully. By the way,
let me add that the apartment was not being inhabited before you came, the walls are cold. You’ll be more comfortable in a few days, I’m sure. The chilly air is foreseen to abandon Venice soon.

  Kind regards, Inviato da iPhone

  A few days? She thought she might die before the weather in Venice changed for the better. She responded once more, equally to the point, that something must be done soon, like immediately. She also informed Ludovico that she’d be taking a short nap followed by a short stay at a hotel.

  She dragged two more blankets from the opposite room, piled them on her bed, and waited. In tears. She got warm enough to doze off a few minutes but her phone woke her when it elicited an annoying buzz followed by a loud jingle that announced another email from Ludovico.

  Update,

  The administrator has just confirmed the imminent fixing of the boat door. I’ve spoken to the housekeeper, who will go to the apartment and check the temperature of the radiators while the heater is running. Need it to be, she will set the heater regulation to a higher level, to get the radiators to be very hot. That’s the best we can do. Would you like us to inform you when a comfortable temp is maintained inside so you can come back from hotel?

  All this writing about heating systems and such items is not easy for me in English, believe me!

  Louisa wanted to scream. For days, she’d asked how to get the heater to produce more heat. All along it was a simple matter of changing the regulation to a higher level.

  Apparently, there were some problems that could only be resolved by the threat of moving into the Danieli.

  “THE DANIELI -- A LUXURY HOTEL COLLECTION,” read the leather-clad card on the elegant maple desk where Louisa sat.

  With a box of tissue on her lap, a copy of Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady in her hands and tea cups filled with hot water flanking her, Louisa peered through the sheer drapes at the streets below her hotel room window. Depressed beyond the beyond, over being sequestered inside the room while Venetian life called outside, Louisa took comfort in knowing she followed in the grandest of footsteps -- those of Henry James and others. Great composers, artists and writers came often to Venice for the same reasons people flocked there today -- to experience beauty, mystery and romance -- and many stayed at the Danieli.