The Windows of Venice, page 1
The Windows
of Venice
R. A. Douthitt
Copyright © 2024 R.A. Douthitt
Cover Design © 2024 R.A. Douthitt
Author Photograph © 2023 Tom Becker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in professional reviews.
ISBN-9798328860413
The Windows of Venice is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other
characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Other books by R. A. Douthitt:
Fantasy Adventure
The Dragon Forest
The Dragon Forest II: Son of the Oath
The Dragon Forest III: The King of Illiath
The Elves of Vulgaard: The White Wolf
The Elves of Vulgaard: Dragon Games
The Elves of Vulgaard: Dragon Riders
Mystery
The Children Under the Ice
The Children in the Garden
The Children of Manor House
Contemporary
The Doors of Rome
The Cafeteria Club
First Christmas at War
The Road to Home
The Fine Art of Love
Journeys of Forgiveness
Nonfiction
Seek Him Prayer Journal: 25 Prayers of HOPE
DEDICATION
For Scott.
Thank you for Venice. Thank you for adventure.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to acknowledge Heather, my editor, for her excellent work and unending patience.
I thank my dear friends Natalie, Naomi, Stephanie, Claudia, Mindy, and Jane for your helpful feedback as beta readers. Your insights have made this a much better story.
Thank you to family friend Charlie Colucci for your help with my Italian translations and delicious Italian recipes.
I thank my husband, Scott, for our time in Venice together and for your encouragement as I wrote this book. You are an inspiration to me, and I thank you for 36 years of happy endings.
Lastly, I thank God for seeing me, hearing me, and blessing me with adventures and windows of opportunity.
I am blessed by His presence daily.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 1
Open windows let in light.
Open windows let in dreams.
New vistas and endless opportunities await through open windows…
The shimmering reflections in the windows whispered promises of untold adventures awaiting her wounded heart.
Joy stepped onto the cobblestone streets of Venice, Italy, with a wide grin that made passersby glance her way. The scent of the Venetian sea breeze and the echo of her past life clung to her like a fading dream.
Joy never realized she’d be taking chances at age fifty-six. She resembled a woman in search of something. But not a hotel room or lost purse.
No, Joy’s twinkling eyes revealed a woman in search of a new chapter filled with adventure and possibilities.
The possibility of rediscovering herself.
Of rediscovering romance?
Joy didn’t know. But one thing she did know was that Millie, the new friend she’d met in Rome, inspired her to try something new even at age fifty-six.
Fifty-six?
Could life begin anew after middle age? Joy could hardly wait to find out.
Outside of the Santa Lucia train station, Joy smiled at the distant sound of seagulls as well as the warm sun on her skin that late afternoon in April. Tourists scattered in all directions, making their way to water taxis, water buses, cafés, and nearby shops. As Joy headed to a vaporetto stop for a boat ride to the gardens near the Piazza di San Marco, her phone vibrated.
“Jaime?” she answered the call.
“Mom! We’re home now. How’s Venice?” The excitement in her voice was contagious.
“I’m so glad you two made it to New York safe and sound. I’m standing on the streets of Venice taking in the beauty. Jaime, I can’t believe I’m here.” Joy inhaled the sea air.
“That’s great, Mom! Michael and I are so happy for you. I’m glad you listened to Claudia and ventured off alone,” Jaime said.
Claudia, their beautiful, statuesque guide in Rome that the publisher had provided for photography contest winners, took Joy aside one night and whispered in her ear about how lovely Venice was and that it was calling to her.
“I don’t know . . .” Joy had grimaced at the thought of traveling alone.
“You must go to Venezia.” Claudia had clasped her hands to her heart. “It is the heart of Italy. The most beautiful city in the world.”
“I thought Rome was?” Joy had asked her.
But Claudia shook her head. “Venezia. It calls to you, Joy. You must answer.”
The memory flashed through her mind.
“Mom? Are you there?” Jaime’s voice jerked her out of the flashback.
“Yes! I’m here, and I agree. I’m glad I listened to Claudia too.”
“Guess what? The wedding venue we wanted is available.” Jaime giggled into the phone.
“That’s wonderful, honey. Now you and Michael can start planning.” Joy grinned widely.
“I’ll FaceTime with you later, Mom. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
Joy said her goodbyes, then ended the call. She exhaled and glanced upward. Thank you, Lord, for giving Michael to Jaime and vice versa. They are so good together.
The year before, Jaime had been left at the altar by Carl.
Carl. Joy shuddered just thinking about him.
She still couldn’t believe what had happened. But in the end, as painful and humiliating as that horrible experience had been, everything turned out for the best. Joy entered Jaime’s photo in the contest, Jaime won an all-expenses-paid trip to Rome, she met Michael there, they fell in love, and now they planned to be married in a few short months.
Joy sighed.
What a romantic story they would have to share with everyone. Meeting each other and then falling in love in the most romantic city in the world.
Did it get better than that?
Joy used her phone to pay for the vaporetto then hopped onboard with many other tourists and headed along the Grand Canal. As she watched the cityscape transform with the changing light, she and other tourists drank in the sunshine warming the skin and calming the soul. The scent of the salty sea air invigorated her.
The boat passed under the Ponte dell’Accademia, the famous bridge near the art academy. Various sites including the dome of the Santa Maria della Salute, the home of Peggy Gugenheim, expensive hotels, and waterside restaurants appeared on her left and right sides. Joy leaned on the rail in the bow of the boat, taking photos and videos along with the other tourist.
Each photo could be a postcard.
Each video, a dreamscape.
In Venice for a few minutes, it had already left an indelible mark on her heart. The ocean air, the scent of the water, and the enchanting scenery had not only awakened her soul but had also woven memories that would stay with her forever.
Every canal they passed, every bridge, every narrow alley whispered stories of a rich and vibrant history unlike any other. A profound connection with this place emerged within her. It’s almost as if I’ve been here before in another life.
Now she understood what Claudia had meant. Venice was an experience and not just a destination. Much like Rome, it was a journey into the past while living fully in the present. But with canals where streets should be and boats where cars should be.
Its intoxicating charm overwhelmed her.
The boat docked near the Giardini Reali, not far from Piazza di San Marco, filled with boutiques, plein air artists, and shoppers.
“Too many tourists,” one lady remarked as she disembarked.
But the bustling docks and sidewalk didn’t bother Joy. People watching remained one of her favorite pastimes.
The boatmate helped Joy disembark with her bags. “Arrivederci,” she said.
He smiled. “Grazie.”
Joy pulled her luggage along the sidewalk toward the
the famous piazza, heading toward her hotel, but hesitated. A gondola ride along a smaller canal appealed to her. What better way to take in the quaint views of the city than by gondola?
Several gondola service ports lined the Grand Canal, so Joy paid the fare and climbed aboard. As the boat glided under a bridge and along the canal, Joy relished the sights and sounds. Gondoliers weren’t singing songs, but they did explain the sights along the way and whistled a famous Italian song instead. Or they simply greeted each other as their gondolas passed. Their voices echoed in the distance and laughter rose from nearby windows, along with the sound of music from pubs and restaurants.
But it was the windows that intrigued Joy.
The windows . . . Joy sighed. They’re so beautiful.
There were so many kinds of windows. Byzantine and Gothic styles as well as more modern-styled windows welcomed her. Some had balconies with baskets of geraniums, while others had clothes dangling from lines strung across the windows and balconies.. The architectural style of the buildings varied as much as the types of flowers displayed throughout.
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.
“Yes. Do you speak English?”
The woman nodded.
“I can help you with the decorations.” Joy shifted her weight and grinned as she patted her chest. “You see, I once worked at a floral shop in New York and—”
“Here.” The woman shoved a stack of dusty rose-colored tablecloths to her. “You do tables, si?”
“Of course.” Joy went from table to table, fitting each one with a tablecloth. After smoothing them out, she rushed over to assist the man with arranging the floral centerpieces onto each one. She paused only for a moment to inhale the sweet scent of pink roses, white carnations, purple petunias, and English ivy. “So lovely.”
The man handed Joy some name cards and gestured to the tables.
“How do I know where to seat the guests?” she asked.
But the man silently went about his business, tying white satin ribbons to the backs of each chair.
“Okay. Well, I suppose it’ll all work out.” Joy haphazardly placed the names of guests onto each table. Only four people fit at each table, for an intimate dining experience. She stepped back and observed the seating arrangements. I’ll have to remember to tell Jaime about that. Fewer people at each table ensures good conversation.
The older woman handed her some candles. “Place”—she gestured—“there.”
“At each table? Okay.” Joy did as she was told.
