The Rossetti Letter (v5) (11 page)

“I’m sorry to hear that. What is her problem?”

“I have a hangover,” Gwen said.

“Ah,” he said, in a high, clipped voice. He noted Gwen’s tender age, more obvious now that her face was washed clean of makeup. “I see.” A brief, disapproving glance at Claire. “Right.” He turned his back to them again.

Claire glared at Gwen.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gwen asked.

“I believe,” the Englishman said, barely turning toward them as he spoke, “that a gentleman would warn an American that she was in the wrong queue, and tell her to go to the correct one, before the official in the booth up ahead has an Italian militiaman escort her there, or to one of those rooms for questioning.” He nodded at a row of spartan offices that lined the far side of the terminal. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

He walked to the booth, leaving them at the front of the line.

“Come on.” Claire pulled Gwen back to the end of the other line, still over two hundred strong.

“Why are we moving again?”

“We either go of our own accord or have a military escort, apparently. Insufferable British. If it weren’t for Americans, he’d be speaking German.”

“Really?” Gwen asked. “Why?”

“Because of the war, of course.”

“There was a war? What war?”

“Never mind.”

“But I don’t understand. Why would he be speaking German?”

“Oh, shut up,” Claire said.

T
HE WATER TAXI
rounded the eastern end of the island and the heart of Venice came into view. Even at a distance, Claire could see the distinctive shape of the Campanile, its pointed green and white rooftop towering above the Piazza San Marco, and the Gothic facade of the Doge’s Palace. As exhausted as she was, she still felt excited: at last, she would be in the city where Vivaldi had composed his greatest works, where Palladio had revived classical Roman architecture, where Titian and Tintoretto had ushered in the Venetian Renaissance. Where Alessandra Rossetti had saved Venice from the evil machinations of the Spanish Conspiracy.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Claire said. Gwen sat next to her, gripping the rail and looking down into the water with a glassy-eyed stare. A dead rat floated on top of the short, choppy waves of the lagoon.

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” she replied. “We should have taken the bus.”

“It would have taken too long.” Making up for lost time wasn’t her only concern. For centuries, before the causeway that joined the city to the mainland was built, the only approach to Venice was by boat—a boat directly to the Piazza San Marco, as they were headed now. She’d wanted her first sight of the city to be the same as if she’d been arriving four hundred years ago. “We’re almost there,” she said, prodding Gwen to make her look up at the view.

The unbroken line of buildings facing the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waterfront walk along the lagoon, glowed with the honey-colored light of the late-afternoon sun. Tourists crowded the promenade, to stroll in the sunlight, browse at souvenir kiosks, or dine in the open-air cafés facing the lagoon and the island monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore. The thickest throng covered the bridge just east of the Piazzetta, and as their water taxi motored past, Claire could see what had drawn them there: fifty yards behind the bridge, suspended above the canal, the Bridge of Sighs connected the Doge’s Palace to the prison directly behind it.

The boat glided into a slip adjacent to a row of gondolas. The pilot, an older man with a sympathetic smile and a striking profile, helped Claire lift her luggage onto a narrow dock, then offered his hand as she climbed out of the boat. She looked up to see the twin marble columns, topped by the Lion of San Marco and the statue of San Teodoro, which marked the entrance to Venice. Four hundred years ago, the Piazzetta had been as much of a tourist mecca as it was today, filled with market stalls and people from all parts of the world, alive with exotic costume and custom. Games of chance flourished in the space between the two columns, which was also the traditional spot for executions. Four hundred years ago, Claire reflected, some of the Spanish conspirators had died in this very place. Superstitious Venetians didn’t walk between the Lion of San Marco and the statue of San Teodoro, even now.

They stepped onto the Piazzetta. The white, two-story Sansovino library, which housed the Biblioteca Marciana, fronted the west side and faced the Doge’s Palace. But it was already past six o’clock and the library was closed. With their wheeled suitcases trailing behind them, Claire and Gwen reached the base of the Campanile. According to the map the travel agent had provided, their hotel was located just beyond the northwest corner of the Piazza San Marco. Dodging people and pigeons, Claire started diagonally across the square, Gwen plodding along after her.

An hour later, they entered the lobby of the Hotel Bell’acqua, a hostelry that was only a ten-minute walk from the Piazza San Marco, when one knew where one was going. Happily, their labyrinthine path was well rewarded: the small but luxurious hotel was qualified to please in every way, with its picturesque location near two intersecting canals, its elegant lobby, and, not least of its charms, a front-desk clerk who, Gwen insisted as they ascended to the top floor in a tiny elevator, was
really
cute.

Their fourth-floor suite elicited a yawn from Gwen and a feeling of gratitude from Claire, whose budget would never have included such a room, one that was as delicately pretty as a rococo music box. Its Wedgwood blue walls were crowned by elaborate white molding; from the high ceiling hung not one but two Venetian glass chandeliers. The two beds were covered by blue brocade duvets and fluffy down pillows. A small sofa, two chairs, and a hand-painted writing desk occupied a spacious alcove off the main room. Four shuttered windows faced an enchanting panorama of canals, stone bridges, and quaint shop fronts. At the bend of the larger of the two canals, a group of gondoliers stood watch on a row of gondole. It was almost too perfect to be real; it looked like the stage set of a fantasy Venice.

“You’ve got to see this,” said Claire, turning back from the window.

Gwen lay facedown on one of the beds, arms flung wide, snoring softly. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her shoes.

At nine o’clock that evening, Claire and Gwen were wandering the narrow lanes near the hotel in search of a restaurant recommended by the cute front-desk clerk. He had directed them to a place only a few blocks away, and had drawn their route on a map. Even so, Claire wasn’t entirely sure that the restaurant they eventually found was the restaurant he’d mentioned; but as it had the appealing ambience of a vintage trattoria, she decided it would do quite well.

An elderly waiter wearing a knee-length white apron gave them each a menu as they sat down. Gwen didn’t even look at hers.

“I want a cheeseburger,” she said.

“But that’s what you had for lunch.” Or was that breakfast? Their meal in the Milan airport seemed as if it had occurred days ago instead of hours.

“So?”

“Don’t you think it’s a good idea to vary your diet a little?”

“I vary my diet,” she replied. “Sometimes I eat pizza.”

“I don’t think this place has cheeseburgers.”

“What kind of restaurant doesn’t have cheeseburgers?”

“A good one.” Claire scanned the menu. “Why don’t you try the
margherita
? It’s pizza, more or less.”

“I want a cheeseburger.”

A waiter walked over to their table.
“Buona sera, signorine,”
he said. “I am Giancarlo. What can I bring you tonight?”

Claire looked up from the menu.
Holy
god. Standing next to them was one of the most breathtakingly handsome men she had ever seen. He was an inch or so over six feet, with broad, muscular shoulders, slim hips, and sun-streaked brown hair that fell in ringlets to just above his shoulders. His skin was a beautifully burnished golden brown, his mouth generous and full, with the kind of sublime definition she’d seen in Renaissance paintings. His nose was large but refined, with, it seemed, more planes and angles than are usually found on noses. It kept his symmetrical face from being too perfect or too pretty.

How was it possible that in Italy men who looked like this just walked around like normal guys, being waiters, or boat pilots, or hotel clerks? If Giancarlo ever went to the U.S., a giant photograph of him in nothing but Calvin Klein briefs would be dwarfing Times Square faster than he could say “sun god.”

“Hi. I mean,
buona sera,
” Claire said.

“Buona sera,”
Giancarlo said again. This time he said it with a smile and a gaze that held hers for much longer than was necessary to establish a congenial diner/waiter relationship. His eyes were large and hazel, a shimmering combination of green and gold. As he smiled, his eyes seemed to smile, too, as if they could communicate all on their own. Isn’t that what Meredith had said about Italian men, that their allure had something to do with the way they looked at you? Now she understood, because Giancarlo appeared to be saying many things with just one glance: that he thought she was attractive, that he was as surprised and delighted to meet her as she was to meet him, and that, if it were up to him, he would get to know her better. Much better.

Claire finally broke their gaze. Holy god, Holy god. No one had looked at her like that since…maybe no one had
ever
looked at her like that.

“Gwen?” she prompted. The girl was staring up at Giancarlo with her mouth hanging open. “Do you know what you want to order?”

“Oh.” Gwen composed herself. “That thing you said.”

“She’ll have the
margherita,
I’ll have the spaghetti
alle vongole,
and we’ll each have a green salad,” Claire said.

“You speak Italian,” Giancarlo said.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Claire said, switching back to English.

“It sounded very good to me.”

“Grazie.”

“Would you like some wine with dinner? I can recommend the pinot grigio.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Giancarlo returned to the kitchen. Gwen batted her eyes. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she said, imitating Claire.

“Knock it off.”

“Don’t you think he’s a little young for you?”

“No. Not that it’s any of your business.” Claire had been wondering about Giancarlo’s age herself. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine perhaps? Not a lot younger than herself, but still…younger. Meredith might be comfortable going out with younger men, but Claire wasn’t so sure that she would be. Not that he was asking. Not that she would have time! And what would she do with Gwen, in any case?

A few tables away, a man speaking accented Italian startled Claire from her thoughts. She hadn’t noticed anyone new come into the restaurant. The elderly waiter who had first greeted them stood at attention next to his table as he ordered the osso buco and a glass of cabernet.

Something about the timbre of the man’s voice was familiar, but Claire couldn’t see him, as the waiter blocked her view. Then the waiter nodded, took the diner’s menu, and walked away.

“Look,” whispered Gwen, “it’s that English guy from the airport. You know, the one who was mad at you.”

It was him. A little less rumpled, with combed hair, a clean shirt, and a shave, but unmistakably him.

“He wasn’t mad at me. He was officious and rude. Just ignore him.” It was hardly necessary, as he didn’t notice them. Instead, he noisily unfolded a newspaper, spread it on the table before him, leaned over it, and began to read. She squinted at the masthead:
Il Gazzettino,
the Venice daily. Of course he’d make a show of reading an Italian paper.

Giancarlo returned with a bottle of white wine, a basket of bread, and two salads. “Are you here on holiday?” he asked. Even his voice was beautiful: deep, contented, sensual.

“No, for an academic conference.”

“The Ca’ Foscari conference?”

“You know of it?”

“Yes, very well. You are giving a lecture?”

“Just attending.”

“But you study Venetian history?”

Claire nodded. “My dissertation is on seventeenth-century Venice.”

“So you have been here before.”

“This is my first time, actually.”

“Mine, too,” said Gwen.

He turned to Gwen. “You are lucky that your sister brings you along, yes?”

Claire saw dismay in Gwen’s eyes and was quietly pleased. Thank heaven he hadn’t said mother.

“You are staying in Venice?” Giancarlo continued.

“At the Bell’acqua,” Claire replied. “It’s not far from here.”

“Ah, yes. It’s very nice.”

From the kitchen, someone called for Giancarlo. “Excuse me, please,” he said, hurrying away.

“Sister,” Gwen muttered. “You’re too old to be my sister.”

“I could be your half sister,” Claire offered.

“I just don’t understand why.”

“Why what?”

“Why men like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men like you. They look at you, they smile at you, they flirt with you.”

Except for Giancarlo, Claire hadn’t noticed anyone flirting with her, and said so.

Gwen ticked them off on her fingers. “The guy on the boat, the guy at the hotel, and this one, John whatever. I don’t get it. You’re not, like, wicked hot or anything.”

“Thanks very much.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

“Is there a good way?”

“I mean, you’re pretty, but not obviously pretty.”

“Maybe some men don’t like obvious. The subtle approach can be effective, too.”

“It’s just that you don’t use any makeup, and it looks like everything you’re wearing comes from L.L. Bean. Bor-
ring.
”

Claire refrained from telling Gwen that nearly every article of clothing she owned came from the L.L. Bean catalog. The clearance catalog.

“So, do all men like you?” Gwen asked.

Claire thought of Michael. “No.”

Their conversation was silenced when they saw Giancarlo approaching them again. For a second, Claire wished she were more obviously pretty. Clearly, there were times when it offered a distinct advantage.

Her eyes followed the waiter as he set their dinner on the table, then picked up the bottle of pinot grigio. As he leaned across her to refill her wineglass, her face was only inches from the small, half-hidden concavity at the base of his throat. His warm, golden skin smelled of rich, exotic spices. Maybe she could lean in a little closer, and brush his throat with her lips…