Lukas was taking photos, his competent hands caressing his camera. We cruised past long alleyways of water lit by small cafés where people chatted amid the glow of candlelight. Tiny bridges crossed tranquil canals while tourists thronged and packed into stands with glittering souvenirs. The water taxi drew up to our hotel, right on the Grand Canal next to Piazza San Marco.
Estelle and the guys headed out for a late dinner but I decided to go to bed. The trip had drained me. Once inside, I never wanted to leave my hotel room again, an oasis of velvet sage and gold trim. Thick curtains kept the night at bay while hand-blown glass lamps bloomed on the walls, elegantly arched confections of spring green leaves. The hotel clerk had left a bottle of chilled Pellegrino on ice, covered with a fine embroidered napkin. I lay back against the plush pillows on the bed and wished I could live from hotel to hotel, never stopping, never allowing the rest of my life to catch up with me.
The next morning, I found Lukas in the hotel restaurant leaning over the terrace railing, snapping photos of the covered gondolas docked nearby. Gondoliers in their typical black-and-white-striped T-shirts stepped from boat to boat, checking and cleaning before their workday began. The cool morning air played with his shaggy hair as rays of sunlight caught the gold and red strands among the dark.
“You are up early,” I said.
He jumped, and turned to face me. “Congratulations.” He bent and kissed me three times. His freshly shaven cheek smelled of citrus, cedar, and a hint of vanilla. “Thirty-three years. And just yesterday, you were only nine, it seems.”
I looked into his eyes. I could not recall the last time I had felt this content. “I am glad we decided to come here.”
“Come on, I am hungry. Estelle and Filip are not what you would call morning people.”
We filled our plates from the buffet—fresh croissants and pastries, scrambled eggs and fruit salad—and settled on a sun-drenched table next to the water. The waiter brought us tea and coffee with warm milk, along with fresh jus d’orange.
I cracked open a little jar of strawberry preserves and smeared some across my croissant. “This must be the most beautiful place I have ever been.”
Lukas looked out over the begonias that flowered along our railing to the dark cyan waters underneath a cloudless cerulean sky. Then he smiled at me, his eyes warm and dark. “I have never seen anything lovelier.”
“Not flirting so early in the morning, I hope.” Filip’s tone was dry. He now stood beside our table with Estelle. They both wore dark sunglasses. “Congratulations, little treasure.”
They each kissed me three times, and then Filip went to find food while Estelle sat and slowly sipped her black coffee. “Oh, I really needed this. Now, what are we going to do to celebrate Sylvie’s birthday?”
“I do not really want to do anything special,” I said.
She pushed her glasses up onto her head to stare at me. “Nonsense.”
Filip set his plate down, pulled out a chair, and said, “Shall we go exploring during the day and maybe a nice dinner tonight?”
“I have always wanted to see the Palazzo Ducale,” Lukas said.
“Both Sylvie and Lukas are in Venice for the first time, right?” said Estelle. “You know what that means: gondola ride! Our gift to you.”
Lukas and I both groaned.
“I cannot swim,” I said.
“Really?” said Filip. He leaned in close, lowered his lashes, and murmured, “I will have to teach you sometime.”
“No one falls out of a gondola,” said Estelle, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Not even the really clumsy tourists. And if you did, I would save you. I have six swimming diplomas.”
“I refuse to let an Italian guy sing to me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Me too,” said Lukas, nodding emphatically. “Especially if he is hairy.”
Filip lifted one eyebrow, his tone turning wicked. “Which is exactly why you must both undergo this most stereotyped of tourist experiences. Think of it as a rite of passage.”
We spent the morning at the lavish Palazzo Ducale. After we climbed the twenty-four-carat gilt staircase Scala d’Oro, I stopped before a stone face of a grimacing man with penetrating eyes and an open mouth.
“Afraid?” asked Filip, leaning in close. I could feel the warmth of his tight muscles through his thin shirt, pressing against my back.
“What is it?”
“Bocca di leone, the mouth of the lion. This was a postbox for secret accusations, where people would slip notes about their neighbors. The Council of Ten would then lead an investigation by the dreaded security service.”
I shivered. “Ominous.”
“Every secret has its price. Come on, let us go to the Bridge of Sighs.”
He took my hand and led me to the bridge where it is said the prisoners sighed at their last views of Venice before they were led to their darkened cells. Inside the dungeons, the bits of graffiti etched into the stone walls were the only evidence of the lives that had been exhausted there.
For lunch we only had time to grab slices of thin, crispy pizza from a woman with leathery skin and a flowered scarf covering her hair before we were off to the Basilica di San Marco, with its lavish spires, Byzantine domes, and patterned marble. On all of my business trips, I had never taken the time to enjoy the places I had visited. There had always been a client or a colleague to impress, another presentation to prepare. Now I could just be. We hopped on the vaporetto water bus for a tour of the Grand Canal, gliding past ornate buildings while the canal itself was crowded with cargo barges, kayaks, delivery boats, and water taxis. I was delighted to see a Total gas station set by a dock, serving boats instead of cars.
In the late afternoon, Estelle announced it was time for our gondola ride. She had already secured our vaporetto and museum passes, and now she bargained efficiently with a gondolier before calling us over. Naturally, she told him it was my birthday, so I had the seat of honor with Lukas, the other Venetian virgin, as Estelle called us. Estelle and Filip settled into red velvet cushions across from us. Instead of the flirtatious Italian singer I had been dreading, a small white-haired gentleman climbed aboard. He wore a plastic union card pinned to his neat button-down shirt. The gondolier shoved off, and the elderly man turned on the speaker at his feet and began to sing in a beautiful baritone, his voice amplified by the surrounding buildings and the narrow canals.
Even Filip closed his eyes to listen, a small smile signaling his professional approval of the musical proceedings. He was almost unbearably good-looking: dark lashes against fair skin, the cynical quirk to his full lips. My phone pinged with a text from Amy, wishing me a great birthday and asking when we could chat. I quickly wrote back with an excuse, not wanting her to know I had left Grandma, then put away my mobile and resumed studying Filip. If Amy ever met him, she would fall hard. He was exactly her type: musical, funny, smart.
Lukas wrapped his arm around me and I snuggled into his side. No one made me feel safer than Lukas.
“Do you remember the valentine I gave you? Before you left?” he murmured.
I wrinkled my forehead. “You never gave me anything like that.”
“Yes, I did but I did not sign it. I left it in your desk on Valentine’s Day.”