Page 8 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

The high waters that flooded Venice regularly during various seasons and tides had inspired the name of the book shop, Libreria Acqua Alta—high waters.

It was easy to see how the shop would flood easily.

It made sense that the books should be kept in boats and barrels and bathtubs.

That way they could float when the acqua alta crept in.

Claire joined me outside and took pictures of the steps even though other visitors were setting up their ideal social media poses.

She had me take pictures of her as she carefully climbed the book stairs, and when she reached the top, she stood with both arms up in a starfish pose.

I felt nervous just watching her. Heights of any sort were not my thing.

“Your turn,” she said, reaching for her phone. Instead of going to the top, where I envisioned a misstep causing me to topple into the canal, I sat on the third step and turned to the side, trying to create a more slimming pose.

“Do something,” Claire said.

“I am.” I was aware of a gathering audience behind her and said, “Just go ahead.” I tilted my head and held my closed-lip smile.

We moved inside and found a green delivery door that opened onto the canal.

The name of the shop was painted on the door, which was held open by an upholstered chair.

Less than a foot away from the legs of the chair, the canal water touched the floor of the bookstore.

It seemed as precarious to me as the outdoor platform created from books.

We slid into the informal line of people waiting to take pictures, and Claire placed a hand on my shoulder. “Grace, relax.”

“I am relaxed,” I whispered back.

“Are you sure?”

I turned, ready to defend myself, but saw by Claire’s expression that her suggestion to “relax” was her way of saying, “Grace, guess what? We’re in Italy. Enjoy it.”

She was right. I was breathing rapidly. The sense of peace I’d felt during the morning service was quickly escaping as my mind opened the doors to all kinds of possible mishaps.

I drew in a deep breath and turned my attention to the books on the shelves next to where we were waiting in line.

In a catawampus stack I found a book of jokes.

The copyright was only four years earlier, and it had been published in London.

I showed the small book to Claire. “For Nathan.” My physical therapist husband had distinguished himself as the “Dad Joke Guy” because he was always showing up with a new groaner of a joke to keep his patients relaxed and not focused on the pain he was inflicting on them.

“Good choice,” she said. “And look!” She held up a hardback version of Jane Austen’s novel Emma .

Perfect for my Emma. It had been printed in England eighty years ago.

As I fanned through it, I saw dot-size marks on some of the pages.

I imagined they were droplets of tea spilled from a china cup in the hand of the original reader who had lived in a manor.

In the Cotswolds. And rode a beautiful horse and excelled at archery. And—

“Here’s another good one,” Claire said, bringing me back to reality. She showed me a worn copy of Treasure Island . “Would Emma like this too?”

I decided that one was too tattered and seemed to be missing pages. Another book caught my eye. It was a small hardback in English. A quick flip through revealed that it was about St. Francis of Assisi. After hearing about him from Paulina, I wanted to learn more.

“Here we go.” Claire moved in and took her seat on the chair by the delivery door.

She crossed her legs and pretended to be reading her pretty Italian book with the ornamental cover.

Her second pose was casual. She stacked her books in her lap and leaned back with her arm over the back of the chair.

When it was my turn, I positioned myself with my ankles crossed, shoulders back, and hands folded in my lap.

I realized I’d gone into a default formal pose from my childhood, so in an attempt to look relaxed, I lifted my chin and gazed out at the canal.

That was when I remembered photos I’d seen online of a gondola docked outside this door.

The gondola was set up so that visitors could step inside the iconic craft, get comfy on the cushioned seats, and indulge in reading a new book while bobbing on the canal.

Leaning out the open door, I looked in both directions to see if the gondola was tethered nearby. Sadly, it wasn’t.

“Are you trying to look like you’re going to jump into the canal?” Claire asked. “Because if you are, I want to get closer so I can take a video when you fall in.”

I pulled back, and to play off her teasing comment, I pressed my palms together and posed in a mock diving position. The line behind Claire had grown, and judging by the many expressions, my attempt to look like I was having fun was about as humorous as one of my husband’s dad jokes.

I gladly relinquished the coveted photo spot and went back to looking for another book or two to take home.

Maybe I’d find something about how to reinvent yourself when you’re traveling with your closest friend and all your flaws and foibles rise to the surface and you’re aware that you’re entirely too self-conscious about everything.

Like the missing gondola, the book on my needed topic was not to be found.

What we did find was a cookbook in English that featured Italian dishes. Claire was elated. I moved to the next grouping of stacked books and was greeted by the piercing eyes of a black-and-white cat nestled in a snug space between two fanned-out assortments of books.

“Hello,” I said, giving the furry charmer a smile. “Would you mind if I had a look at the book you’re sitting on?”

Claire looked at me. “Who are you talking to?”