Page 9 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Venice ... its temples and palaces did seem

Like fabrics of enchantment pil’d to heaven.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The bookstore mascot meowed at Claire. I gently wiggled an old book out from under the cat’s front paws. The book was in surprisingly good shape and had sketches of pressed flowers accompanied by short poems. Any book about flowers was a treasure to me.

We browsed for a few more minutes, but the shop was getting crowded. We reminded each other that anything we bought had to fit in our carry-on luggage. While splurging was our agreed-upon goal, maybe an excess of heavy books wasn’t something we should splurge on.

After making our purchases, we stepped outside, and Claire showed me a small brown case she’d picked up last minute at the checkout. “Did you see this?”

“No. What did you get? Is there a tiny book inside?”

She lifted the lid to show me a vintage set of watercolors. The green had been used, but the other primary colors appeared to be untouched in the small squares of the old set.

“For Brooke?” I guessed. Her daughter was eight, and I wasn’t sure she would appreciate a box of used watercolor paint.

“No, it’s not for Brooke. It’s for me. Remember when we read The Enchanted April ? The older woman in the story brought her poetry books with her on their trip to Italy and planned to sit inside and read them all day at the villa.”

“Yes, I remember. I loved the movie.”

“Me too. And when she opened a drawer in her room she found an old tin of watercolors. Remember? She went outside and started painting what she saw. The flowers and the trees. The paints transformed her life.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed with that assessment, but clearly the watercolor set was bringing Claire as much joy as the discovery had brought the woman in the story. “Does it come with a paintbrush?” I asked.

“No. But I’m happy just to find a little antique paint set in Italy.”

I loved seeing Claire so happy. The joy continued as she navigated our way to a nearby gelateria that, she reminded me, opened sooner than almost any other gelato shop in Venice.

Eight people were ahead of us in a haphazard line. We weren’t able to see the flavors until we were right up against the case and could look in. I quickly chose stracciatella, which looked like chocolate chip. Claire went for the lamponi, which we were pretty sure was raspberry.

When we tried to pay with an app on our phones, the young man who scooped our treat started talking loudly in Italian.

His tone was sharp, and we had no idea what he was saying.

Finally, he said, “Euros!” and we understood that he only accepted cash.

The bookstore had been the same. No credit cards or apps.

Only cash. I was glad we’d thought to exchange money before arriving in Italy.

I just didn’t think we’d go through it so quickly.

I wasn’t sure what we paid for the small cups of our first taste of real gelato because that would have required a bit of calculating of euros to dollars. At the moment, we didn’t care.

Once we were outside, Claire took her first taste. “You have to try this. It’s so good.”

I dipped my plastic spoon into her pink mound and immediately agreed. She had chosen wisely. Mine was good. Rich and creamy. But hers was better.

“Is there such a thing as gelato envy?” I asked.

Claire chuckled and held out her cup for me to take another taste.

“No, I’ll wait until we come to our next gelateria and try something more adventurous, like you did. Mine is vanilla with bits of chocolate. It’s good, but it doesn’t wake up all my taste buds the way yours does.”

“I want to try pistachio at our next gelato stop,” Claire declared. She scraped the sides of her cup. “Why didn’t we get doubles? That went too quickly.”

“Do you want to go back for seconds?”

She thought for a moment. “No, let’s wait until we come across another gelato place. We know there are lots to choose from.”

Claire was right. On our way to St. Mark’s Square, we saw two gelaterias.

We also saw a dress shop, a leather goods shop, a candle shop, and several restaurants that weren’t open.

We came upon another small campo with an equally small church and kept following the route.

We must have been on a main thoroughfare because more of the street- level doors and windows were renovated and had become specialty shops rather than front doors to dwelling places.

We popped into one of the small shops just for fun because they had books in the display window. Another customer told us in halting English that we were standing in the oldest paper store in Venice and that this was the third time she had come here. She said they rebound old books.

“What do you buy when you come here?” I asked her. “What keeps bringing you back?”

“These.” She held up what looked like a custom-made book. As she flipped through the blank pages, I saw that it was a journal with crisp white paper and a one-of-a-kind cover.

“That’s lovely.”

Claire perused the colorful journals lined up in a neat fashion on the shelves.

I was captivated by what looked like long sheets of wrapping paper that hung like drying towels on wooden racks.

The racks were above what appeared to be the owner’s worktable, complete with glass pots of glue, rulers, tape, and box knives.

The orderliness was the opposite of what we had experienced at the first bookstore, and yet this one held as much fascination.

“Do you have small paintbrushes for sale?” I asked the shopkeeper. “For watercolors.”

He stepped across the room and reached for an item in the front window display.

It turned out to be colored pencils tied with a ribbon like a bouquet.

Using a string of Italian words, he went to a drawer and pulled out a small pencil sharpener, indicating that the sharpener came with the bouquet of pencils.

It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped to find for Claire to go with her watercolor set. But the man and the bouquet of pencils were so endearing, I had to buy them for her.

Claire had the same idea of blessing me with a gift. She and I had done this often in our long friendship. Both of us had a hard time buying anything for ourselves, but we had no problem spending money on our friends and family.

Every woman should have a friend who gives her the gift she hesitates to get for herself.

Claire held up two journals. “What do you think?”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’m going to get that one.” She used her chin to point to a sketchbook sort of journal she had placed to the side. The cover had a very “Claire” floral pattern of tiny white and pink flowers. “I’m asking for you. Which do you like? I want to get one for you too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I am. Just tell me. Which one?”

I studied the two leather-bound journals more closely. “I love that one. It feels Venetian.” The one on the right had an old-world feel, and the gold-embossed design shimmered as Claire held it up.

With a gratifying grin, she said, “That’s what I thought you would say. Just wanted to make sure.”

She bought the journals, I bought the pencils, and we felt sweetly touched as we watched the shop owner carefully wrap each item as if he were preparing them as a special gift. He walked us to the door and warmly sent us on our way.

“You know what I just realized?” Claire said. “This is what we came for.”

“Pencils and journals?” I teased. “And books? Because you and I have a shortage of those at home.”

“No, I mean the people here. The unexpected moments. The little places that don’t have a website because they’re truly local.

I hoped we would find a place like this.

Can you imagine taking a beloved old book to that shop and having it restored?

Where do you even find places like that in our modern world? ”

“True.” I linked my arm in Claire’s as we walked, feeling lavishly content.

On our stroll to St. Mark’s Square, Claire and I came upon a small campo with a sidewalk café. A dozen tables with chairs were tightly arranged under several large outdoor umbrellas. From the other end of the square, classical music floated toward us.

“Come on.” I nudged Claire off our main path and meandered closer to the musicians. A young man playing a cello and a young woman with a violin had just finished a piece. Their stage was a small rug that looked well-worn. Listeners tossed coins into a blue and yellow ceramic bowl at their feet.

The young woman straightened her shoulders and tucked her violin under her chin.

Her companion tapped his foot four times and began playing a piece I recognized because it was one of Nathan’s favorites.

His mom had taught piano lessons at home while he was growing up, and he was better educated in classical music than I was.

I had learned much from him over the years.

The couple beside me recognized the piece too. An older man said, “Bach. Prelude to Cello Suite No. 1 in G major.”

I turned to him with a smile and a nod, but his eyes were closed and he seemed to be breathing in each note. The acoustics on this corner of the campo were ideal. I wondered if it was okay to film the musicians. No one else was.

The violin came in, and the two instruments did what they were created to do with perfect rhythm and harmony.

The beauty of the moment brought tears to my eyes.

I had to share this with Nathan. I tried not to be too noticeable as I pulled out my phone and held it at chest level, capturing the last few exultant bars of the beautiful duet.

They held out the last note. When it vanished, a lingering hum seemed to quiver in the air around us. Claire and I pulled out some coins to add to their tip bowl.

Sadly, that was their last performance. They quickly packed up and returned their instruments to the cases.

I walked away with the same sort of sadness I’d felt when the morning service ended at the church and when the last bit of gelato melted on my tongue.

The mini concert, like the other touches of Venice we had experienced that morning, was unexpected and gorgeous.

The distinct moments taunted me when they were over as if to say, “Did you enjoy that? Good. Because you’ll never experience anything exactly like that again. ”

I wanted more.

Claire was feeling the same way, at least about the gelato. She peered at her phone and was making a plan. “If we change our route, we can stop by another gelateria before we start our tours at St. Mark’s Square. It only adds a few more minutes to our walk.”

“You don’t need to ask me twice if it involves more gelato!”

The gelateria was small and the line was long. When we reached the counter, Claire and I said, “Pistachio” at the same time.

“Our best,” said the woman. She used a flat metal spatula to scoop and pat the pale green treat into two paper cups. After inserting tiny pink plastic spoons, she added a sprinkling of pistachios on top.

This time the first taste of pistachio gelato produced closed eyes and lingering “mmm’s” from both of us. We took our time enjoying every last taste of our two-thumbs-up flavor.

Claire rattled her spoon around in her empty cup when she finished hers. “More, please.”

“We really need to get over this habit of only ordering a single scoop,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me last night that Jared told you to splurge on this trip?”

“Are you saying that two scoops of gelato before lunch isn’t a splurge?” Claire asked.

“Not even close. Trust me. I’m the one who only remembers the sweets from my trips to London and Paris, remember?”

“And Denmark.”

“Yes. And Denmark. So believe me when I tell you that the requirement for gelato on the International Splurging Chart is a four-scoop minimum before noon. Sadly, you and I are underachievers this morning.”

“We will have to do something about that.” Claire pulled out her phone to check the time. “But first, the Doge’s Palace.”

We had another “we’re in Venice” moment when Claire and I entered St. Mark’s Square.

Visitors brushed past us, bumped into us, their voices filling the air with a stirring blend of languages.

A couple stopped and stood in front of us to capture pictures of the elaborately designed ninth-century Basilica di San Marco in all its golden glory.

The balance of the curves and great domes made a striking contrast to the regimented buildings that enclosed the huge plaza.

We moved with the crowd as if we were in a school of fish, and the closer we got to St. Mark’s Basilica, the more majestic the church became.

It appeared established and unmovable as if it were anchored.

Quite a feat in Venice, where everything, including this great square, rested on tree trunks driven into the mud eons ago.

I was beginning to understand the unspoken urgency of people around the world to visit Venice so they could see it before it was gone.

In the same way that I’d felt sad about the unique moments of our morning coming to an end, I couldn’t bear the thought that one day Venice could be over.

I didn’t want this unstable, often flooded fairy-tale place to ever be gone.

Claire stopped to take a picture of the tall bell tower at the end of the plaza by the lagoon. The structure reminded me of a rocket made of red bricks with a pointed green cap.

“Did I tell you that Galileo demonstrated his telescope up there, at the top of the campanile?” Claire asked.

“Are you still thinking you want to go to the top?” I asked.

“Yes. And like I said before, I’m fine going up by myself if you don’t want to go.”

Part of me wanted to declare that I would go with her. I had agreed to try new things, so why not climb to the top and see whatever it was that held such fascination for her? It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Another part of me felt certain I would be just fine if I went my whole life without ever seeing a bird’s-eye view of anything that required me to climb three hundred and something steps inside what had to be a claustrophobic tube of bricks.

The canals and buildings held plenty of once-in-a-lifetime fascination for me.

Best of all, I could see those sights while remaining at sea level.

Or, in some cases, a few feet below sea level.

I would decide about the bell tower later.

For now, I wanted to see the opulent rooms in the Doge’s Palace, where Marco Polo had presented his gifts when he returned from the Far East. I’d read a novel years ago with memorable scenes set in the Great Council Chamber.

It felt unreal that we were here, about to enter the place that had mesmerized me and remained in my memory.