Page 17 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.

Rudyard Kipling

Claire and I could hear a faint voice from inside the bright green house. The door opened slowly. An elderly man leaned on his cane, eyeing us suspiciously.

“Paolo? Hi. We’re friends of Paulina,” Claire said.

“Paulina?” His eyes lit up.

“Yes, Paulina.” I handed him the note. He briefly glanced at it and looked at us, saying many things we didn’t understand.

Claire held out the basket brimming with vegetables as fresh and colorful as the rain-washed houses. “This is for you. From Paulina.”

He looked as if he might cry. Opening the door all the way, he motioned for us to come in and spoke rapidly in Italian.

Claire pulled out her phone and tapped into the translation app.

When he paused, she tried to play back what he had said.

Something was not working. The words in English made no sense.

But he knew Paulina, and our role was merely to deliver the gift. That part was understood. Claire placed the basket on a small table to the right of his open door, and the man indicated more enthusiastically that we should come in.

Claire spoke into her phone. Her polite message was translated into Italian for him, saying that we needed to be on our way and that we hoped he had a good day and enjoyed the gift from Paulina’s garden.

Her app seemed to do its job this time because as the man listened, he nodded and then broke into another string of words that Claire’s app was unable to sort out.

I wondered if the man had a regional accent or if his missing tooth caused his words to sound different.

We smiled, waved, gave pleasant nods, and headed back the way we had come. I had mixed feelings about our delivery. Had Paulina expected us to stay and help prepare some food for him? She would have included that detail if she’d wanted us to do more than deliver the basket.

As we walked, Claire said, “I realize I didn’t ask if you wanted to stay longer.”

“No. I think that was the right decision. While we were standing on his doorstep, I was curious if he lived alone and what his small house was like. But I was too nervous to look inside.”

“Nervous?”

“You know. Cautious. I didn’t want to upset him or offend him.”

Claire stopped walking. She looked at me. “You really do worry about those things, don’t you?”

“I do. And I’ve noticed it here more than at home. I caught myself earlier when I was worried that Paulina’s feelings might be hurt because we didn’t invite her to go for morning coffee.”

“Grace.”

“I know.”

We fell into step again with Claire leading the way to the next stop for us, the Lace Museum.

The sprinkles let up as quickly as they had descended, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.

Claire removed her hood and I took off my scarf.

We turned a corner, and I spotted a bell tower rising behind a row of houses.

I tilted my head side to side as we got closer.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of going up in that bell tower and trying to convince me to join you,” I said. “Because it’s leaning. I mean, Leaning-Tower-of-Pisa leaning.”

“It sure is. I don’t even know if they let visitors go up inside. Don’t worry. No bell towers on the list for me today,” Claire said.

We took our time to capture an assortment of photos of the pointed tower that looked like a rocket ship headed to the moon.

The sunshine made the houses look even more colorful.

One of them was purple. Bright purple. And yet, the shade blended sweetly with all the yellows, oranges, reds, and blues of the side-by-side houses.

Their vividness made the faded taupe color of the tilted tower stand out even more.

Above us, the fleeing clouds unveiled a pastel-blue sky that offered hope for another gorgeous day.

Before we reached the museum, we came upon an older woman who was putting out a rack of lace tablecloths in front of her small shop. She stopped, smiled at us warmly, and said, “Prego,” indicating that her shop was now open and we were invited to step inside.

The appeal of being the first to arrive at any location was like honey to us.

We couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Another older woman was sitting near the window on a straight-back chair with her feet on a stool.

She balanced a round cushion in her lap, and on the cushion, an intricate lace pattern was in process.

Claire and I stood for a long while watching her move the spools of fine white thread and adjust the pins to alter the pattern.

Watching her experienced hands was mesmerizing.

We didn’t speak, and neither did she. I felt like I was watching a ballet performance or a flock of starlings in the evening sky. Each move was intentional and graceful.

A few other shoppers entered and admired the tablecloths, napkins, and handkerchiefs for sale.

I looked around for a while, trying to decide if I should buy something.

Each piece was a dainty work of art, and unlike books, they would hardly take up any room in my suitcase.

But I wasn’t sure what lace like this could be used for since it wasn’t a modern-day commodity.

“Are you buying something?” I asked Claire. She had a handkerchief in her hand with a lacy letter B sewn on one of the corners.

“For Brooke,” she said. “I’m going to save it and give it to her on her wedding day.

A friend gave me a handkerchief for my wedding day, and I wrapped it around the handle of my bouquet.

I didn’t need it for tears because I had no reason to cry.

But my hands perspired like crazy, and the handkerchief spared many wedding guests from a soggy handshake. ”

“I love that. Did you see any with an E ?”

Claire led me to the side table, where she found a hankie with a C and said she was going to purchase it for herself. I found one with a G and decided I should buy it. The E for Emma required a deeper search and led to my finding one for my mom and also Nathan’s mom.

“We picked up half the alphabet,” Claire said with a smile when she handed our purchases to the young woman who took our payment.

She smiled back and asked, “Do you know why the women of Burano perfected the art of lace making?”

“Did it have something to do with fishing?” I asked.

“Everything on our island has something to do with fishing.” She smoothed her hair back from her face and said, “The story of the lace started with a fisherman from Burano who sailed the Adriatic Sea to where the mermaids lured men into the water. This particular fisherman, however, held a deep love for his future bride and could not be tempted. The queen of the mermaids heard of this and swam to his boat. She wanted to see the face of innocent love and faithfulness. And when she saw the fisherman, she was not disappointed.”

Several other shoppers moved closer to hear the rest of the story.

“Because of his great faithfulness and love for his bride-to-be, the queen of the mermaids gave the fisherman a special gift. She swished her tail against the side of his boat and, in doing so, stirred up a soft globe of sea-foam. Taking the foam in her hands, she turned it into an elegant bridal veil and gave the beautiful gift to the fisherman for his true love.”

Claire nudged me and made a cute heart symbol with her fingers. I smiled back.

“The fisherman brought the priceless veil home to Burano. When his bride wore it on their wedding day, she was the most beautiful bride the island had ever seen. Ever since that day, the women of Burano have been trying to re-create the delicate, lacy elegance of the veil that came from the sea. It was the reward of innocence, given to humans by the queen of the mermaids.”

“What a charming story,” I said.

“Thank you for telling it,” Claire added. “I love stories like that.”

The woman leaned in as if she was going to tell us a secret. “Stories show us truth, beauty, and hope. Stories are a gift. This is why we must always give others the gift of our stories.”

The woman’s sage words connected with something inside me. When we stepped out of the shop, I paused and pulled out my phone.

“Just a second,” I told Claire. “I want to record what she said about stories. They are a gift, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Where would we be without all the books you and I have read over the years?” Claire pulled out her phone and took a photo of the shop. “And here is a sobering thought. Would you and I have ever met if it weren’t for our love of books?”

“True.”

I remembered Paulina saying at the Frari that St. Francis had influenced artists to tell Bible stories through art. I quickly added that to my note before we started our tour of the Lace Museum.

More insights kept coming to me about the influence of art on our imaginations and how stories impact the way we think. The many lace items on display all seemed to be silently telling stories. I studied the various patterns with new eyes, thinking of the queen of the mermaids.

I had always wanted to come to Venice because I imagined it would be romantic, enchanting, and like no other place on earth.

What I didn’t expect was the sense that Claire and I kept stepping into living fairy tales.

All the people who inhabited these islands over the centuries had left their stories here.

Their tales permeated every form of art.

I could see the bigger picture of the grand allure of Venice now as I studied the fragile designs created from simple thread.

Each piece spoke to me as if it were a miniature, misty echo of the architecture, sculptures, paintings, canals, colors, and music of intriguing Venice.

Even the foundation on which this marvelous place had been raised was crafted by clever artisan builders and engineers.

It was all story. All art.