Wedding in Venice

Chapter Eighteen

The dawn came softly and quickly, ushered in by the bell of St Mark's campanile. Justine stood on the balcony on top of Riccardo's apartment, and marveled at the beauty of the morning.

She had spent the night in his arms, not making love, but enclosed in safety. Instinctively he had known what she needed, and had given it to her. A generous man, loving generously.

He came up through the trapdoor, bearing a cup of hot tea.

"You're a magician," she said. "I'm just ready to murder for a cup of tea."

She sipped blissfully, looking around her and down into the narrow alleys. Then she stiffened.

"What's that? It looks like water in the streets."

"It is," Riccardo sighed. "It's high tide and the lagoon has flooded. It used to only happen in winter. Now it can be at any time."

The photographer in her spoke at once. "I must get my camera."

He grinned ruefully. "How did I know you were going to say that? Come on, I'll take you home."

Outside she found the whole aspect of Venice transformed. Wherever she looked the narrow streets seemed to be lakes, and although the water was only four inches deep the effect was still staggering.

Running like children, hand in hand, they splashed their way back to the palazzo and secured all her equipment.

"First we go to St. Mark's Square," he said. "It's an astonishing sight when this happens, and it won't last long because the tide will turn."

It was like that all day. He acted as her caddy and her advisor, telling her where to find the best shots.

"I love this city," she said as they finally sat together at Florian's, drinking chocolate.

He was clever enough to say nothing, letting her work out the implications for herself.

When they came out, the water had gone, and they strolled contentedly back to the hotel. While he saw to some business in the hotel she went up to the apartment and took a shower.

He arrived upstairs later to find her swathed in one of his towel dressing gowns, drinking tea. He held out his hand and led her to bed.

His loving was like himself, generous, skillful, unpredictable. Relaxed at last, Justine responded wholeheartedly, and discovered that she too was unpredictable. It was like finding that you'd turned into a new person.

Dozing in his arms afterward she found her mind traveling along new paths of discovery. Much of her business involved traveling abroad. She could run it as well from Venice as from England.

She woke to find him planting soft kisses on her face.

"Stay with me always," he begged.

It would be so easy to say yes, to believe in the bright dream. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him. Now the last leap seemed not only possible but easy, inevitable.

But before she could speak her cell phone shrilled.

"Answer it," he said. "There's time enough for what we have to say to each other."

It was Dulcie, calling from her honeymoon hideout.

"Blissful," she said in answer to Justine's question. "I can recommend marriage."

Justine laughed. "That's very interesting."

"But something sad has happened. Harriet has left Marco."

"What? But they were setting the date," Justine protested.

"I know. Now it's all over."

When the call ended Justine slowly replaced the receiver, feeling stunned.

"What has happened?" Riccardo asked, with foreboding.

"Harriet and Marco have broken up. Two days after it was going to last forever."

In a daze she saw the bright dream disintegrate and fall with tinkling shivers around her feet. So much for love eternal! What had she been thinking of to believe in such stuff?

She began to laugh, falling back on the bed, contorted with mirth.

"Is it funny?" Riccardo asked.

"Of course it is, don't you see? Oh, what an idiot I've been!"

"Justine, this has nothing to do with us."

"The hell it hasn't! It has to do with everyone who buys into that pretty fantasy. And I came so close – but not anymore. I got confused, but I've seen the light now, and I'm going home before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have. Don't try to stop me Riccardo."

She waited for him to argue, but there was only silence. It seemed he had accepted her decision and, illogically, she knew a little ache of desolation. If he would only speak a word to dissuade her -

"I'll take you home," he said.