Bright red geraniums, freesia, purple petunias, yellow lilies, and alyssum as white as snow filled the baskets. Joy knew flowers. She loved gardening in her backyard in New Rochelle, but working in a florist shop back in New York was where she had learned the most about flowers in all their varieties.
Flowers were like friends. Each day, they greeted her with bright smiles.
A woman waved from her balcony, so Joy waved back.
“Buongiorno,” she said to the woman.
“Giorno,” the woman replied with a smile.
Joy was glad she had accepted the challenge to travel alone. She had arrived in Venice.
Alone.
Wow. She giggled and shook her head. I still can’t believe it. Who would have thought I could be brave enough to do this?
When the boat stopped at a sidewalk near her hotel, Joy disembarked and made her way to the lobby, passing tourists, locals rushing to work, and restaurants. Many restaurants, each one so unique. Waiters set up small tables outside with tablecloths and salt and pepper grinders.
Finally at her hotel, with its pink stucco walls, she inhaled.
Here we go. My home for the next couple of weeks.
The lobby was decorated with tapestries and framed paintings of Tuscan landscapes, which along with a wrought iron staircase, created an old world feel to the lobby. Crystal chandeliers dangled above her, and the light reflected off the polished marble floor.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Joy murmured to herself.
“Benvenuto,” the hotel manager said, waving his arms. “Welcome to Venezia, the city of love.”
“I thought Rome was the city of love,” said one American tourist. She nudged her husband, who attempted to tip the bellhop when he loaded their luggage onto a cart.
“That’s what I heard too.” Joy shrugged.
The manager shook his head and ushered them to the front desk. “Roma . . . it is the eternal city. But Venezia”—he gestured toward his chest—“Venezia is the heart of Italy. The city of love. You’ll see.”
“It’s already won my heart.” Joy smiled.
“Signora.” He handed her the key card to her room. “Your room is on the fourth floor. Breakfast is served daily at eight in that room there.” He pointed to a hallway behind her.
“Sounds wonderful.”
Once she had her room key card, Joy rode the elevator to the fourth floor and located her room. When she opened the door, fresh air hit her nostrils and cooled her skin. The window had been left open by the cleaning staff. A light breeze animated the lace curtains. Chatter and music from a restaurant below rose to her ears.
The soundtrack of the city.
She wheeled her bag over to the bed and leaned out her window. It overlooked a small piazza decorated with trees and potted roses, small tables, and vendors. Joy craned her neck left and noticed a bridge over the canal. Shoppers overloaded with bags scurried by while others sat at the small round tables in the piazza, sipping coffee or cappuccinos.
Joy removed her phone from her purse and took photos of the view and then of her room. A queen-size bed, side tables, and framed replicas of Renoir and Bosschaert hung on the wall. In the distance, the tip of the Campanile Tower rose above the buildings before her. The famous tower provided the best views of the city, a friend once told her. I’ll have to take the elevator to the top. She opened her phone and scheduled it on her calendar. There. Now I’ll get a reminder.
After taking dozens of photos of her view, she sent them to Jaime for a surprise in the morning.
The sun hid behind a few clouds in the sky, cooling off the breeze that chilled her bare arms. The weather app on her phone predicted rain later in the day, so Joy unpacked, put on her comfortable walking shoes, and headed to the piazza. She wanted to capture the sunset before the rain, and before her first day in Venice was over.
The streaks of pink and violet tones gliding across the sky left her breathless. She walked through the piazza toward the Grand Canal. The view of the canal left her breathless. Vaporettas and speedboats passed by, leaving their foamy wakes behind. Seagulls fluttered through the air, searching for food. In the distance the dome of the Punta della Dogana, highlighted by the setting sun, greeted her. She took more photos and videos with her phone, hoping to capture the glorious scene for Jaime, but knew her camera couldn’t possibly capture the details that the human eye could. The vibrant colors, shadows, and sparkles dancing on the surface of the water.
As she leaned on the railing, cool air rushed over Joy, and she rubbed the goosebumps off her arms. Her hands on her arms were all too familiar. She couldn’t remember when her arms were last touched by someone other than herself or Jaime or her doctor during an exam.
Joy rolled her eyes. How pathetic is that?
She longed for the touch of someone special. Would that ever happen again? She blew air between her lips.
Walking away from the crowds, Joy strolled down an alleyway that opened to a courtyard with a private view of the Grand Canal.
Sadness overwhelmed her as she yearned for the arms of the only man she had ever loved—Tony. A lump in her throat made it hard to breathe for a moment.
The year before, their thirty-five-year marriage had ended when Tony abruptly shoved divorce papers into her face, then left their home with his new receptionist, Tiffany, on his arm. Joy cringed when the sound of her own voice begging him to stay echoed in her mind.
How could I have been so stupid as to beg him? She shook her head. Yet she knew why she’d begged him. He had become her life. He had become her everything. I won’t let that happen again, that’s for sure. She stood tall and hugged herself as if her arms were a life jacket From now on, it’s just me. Just me and Jaime and—
Shouts from a woman startled Joy, and she turned around to see what was happening. An older woman shouted orders in Italian to a man Joy assumed was her husband. Only a wife could get away with yelling at a man like that.
Several small tables had been arranged on the hotel courtyard, and the man carried boxes of floral arrangements, huffing as he walked.
The woman ordered him where to place each arrangement, and with quiet patience, the man did just as he was told.
Joy made her way over to the scene. Passersby paused to watch but then carried on without helping. Joy loved arranging flowers. It was a passion of hers, and she could hardly wait to help Jaime decorate for her wedding reception.
“Excuse me,” Joy interrupted. “Can I help you?”
“Can you help me?” the woman echoed.
