The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(28)

Chapter 15




Emilia

Day One

Venezia—Venice

Marco Polo Airport is bustling this Monday morning, and we make our way through customs. Aunt Poppy’s gait isn’t quite so sprightly, and under the airport’s fluorescent lights, her olive skin reflects a grayish undertone. She looks every bit her seventy-nine years—or worse. Of course she’s just made an eight-hour overnight flight without sleep. I wouldn’t expect her to look youthful.

It’s eleven in the morning when we step outside the airport. The sun spills over the Laguna Veneta—the enclosed bay of the Adriatic Sea—and at once, we all seem more vibrant.

“Hiraeth!” Poppy cries, and claps her hands. “Do you know this Welsh word? It’s a feeling not easily translated into words. A deep longing for home, a nostalgia—a yearning—for the place that calls to your soul.”

“That’s beautiful,” I say, “though I’ve never actually experienced hiraeth.”

“I’m not surprised.” She tips her head. “But one day you will.”

Five minutes later, we board a water taxi, a small wooden craft Poppy arranged to deliver us to our hotel on Venice’s Grand Canal. Taavi, our handsome driver, stands at the helm dressed in tight jeans with a scarf snaked around his neck. Lucy plants herself beside him, while Poppy and I claim a red vinyl bench.

Boats of every shape and size zip up and down the lagoon, ferrying passengers to and from the mainland. Ahead, Venice beckons us, a city of more than a hundred tiny islands stitched together by bridges and alleys and canal sidewalks.

“Once,” Taavi tells us, the wind at his face, “the only way to reach the city of Venice was by boat. In 1846, the Ponte della Libertà was built—the Bridge of Liberty.”

“Bridge of Liberty,” I say. “I love the sound of that.”

“It is our causeway,” he continues, “the railway into the city.”

“What about cars?” Lucy asks.

Taavi grins. “No automobiles in Venice. We use the vaporetti—much like the ferry boats—to get around the islands.”

Lucy leans close, her jacket unzipped, and tells him about the ferry boats in New York. He listens politely, but he shifts away from her, keeping his eyes on the water instead of her cleavage.

The boat swerves and the salty brine trickles down on us like holy water. Poppy lifts her hands and cheers, her pink and orange silk scarf billowing in the wind. Taavi waves to his mates, the fellow water taxi drivers. “Oi, oi,” he calls, warning them as we pass.

Poppy waves, too. “Oi, oi,” she mimics.

The wind laps my face. Without warning, I begin to laugh. “I’m in Italy. We’re in Italy. We’re actually here!”

Lucy shakes her head. She doesn’t understand that for twenty-nine years, I’ve longed for an adventure like this.

The lagoon curves, and we enter a wide swath of water lined with ancient Venetian palaces, domed cathedrals, and sumptuous hotels, all awash in peaches and pinks and yellows.

“Welcome to the Grand Canal,” Taavi says, slowing the boat. “The Main Street of Venezia.”

Pilings of timber line the waterway, serving as markers for the myriad of water vessels.

“The city of Venice was built on a wooden platform,” Taavi explains. “Back in the fifth century, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, barbarians from the north raided the mainland. People escaped to the marshes. Later, many decided to make the wetlands their home. These early Venetians drove stakes into the sand and constructed wooden platforms atop the stakes. The beautiful buildings you see today are built upon those wooden platforms.”

“It really is a floating city,” I say, studying the ornate structures with even greater appreciation.

Taavi docks the boat in front of the Ca’ Sagredo Hotel, an exquisite pink building dotted with white balustrades. He takes hold of each of our hands as we climb from the boat onto a concrete platform. Lucy steps off last.

“Do you have a business card?” she asks Taavi, her head tilted in what I’m sure is a calculated angle, ensuring that a lock of hair spills over one eye. “We’re here for three days. I might need you again.”

I cringe.

“Uh, sì.” Taavi pulls a card from his shirt pocket. Before handing it to her, he scribbles something on it.

Lucy’s mood seems to brighten three shades. She waves as Taavi speeds away. “Arrivederci!”

She glances at the business card as we move to the hotel, and stops in midstep. “Motherf—” She catches herself. “Motherducker.” She tears the card in two, but not before I see No, thank you written on the back. “Don’t you hate it when you’re just being friendly, and guys think you’re hitting on them?”

Poppy rests a hand on Lucy’s back. “A pair of breasts in one’s face is apt to imply the latter, dear.”



* * *





Lucy gushes when she opens the door to our spacious suite. “Whoa. Someone’s laying down some serious cash.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, admiring the glossy wood floor and soft gray walls. Two gigantic beds take up the front of the room, with a comfortable sitting area toward the balcony. I peek my head into a white marble bathroom with double sinks. How can a retired art teacher afford this place?