has neatly coiffed Princess Grace blond hair and angel-perfect skin.
I, on the other hand, looked exactly like someone who had slept in my clothes—which I had. Sasha didn’t say anything about my rumpled turtleneck and messy ringlets. But she pulled a sumptuous indigo velvet shawl from her woven leather messenger bag and wrapped the length around me, pinning the cloth effortlessly with a rhinestone broach. In seconds, I’d captured a little of her style. Sasha is so high-end, she rubs off on the people around her. Without a word, she twisted my black hair into a makeshift bun and used a silver barrette to hold the curls in place.
A man in a suit stood at our gate. He was bald and heavily muscled with a ginger-colored goatee. Uncle Stefan , I thought, feeling pleased with myself for having so easily imagined the man. Maybe he was younger and less paunchy than I’d guessed, but I had nailed his basic appearance.
“Lou!” squealed Sasha, confusing me as she embraced the man. “Ellis, this is Lou. He works for Stefan. Lou, this is Ellis.”
Lou shook my hand, and I wondered if he could see the difference between the two of us. Sasha, effortless with her money. Me, a poor church mouse on scholarship.
“You’re just as lovely as Sasha described,” he said. His accent was distinctly Irish, and charming. I felt my cheeks go pink at his words. The scarf slid a little and I hitched the burnt-out velvet back onto my shoulders. If he could discern the fact that I was in the empty-pocket club, he didn’t show the knowledge in his expression. He treated us equally, following us to the baggage claim, not appearing at all judgmental about my battered suitcase in comparison to Sasha’s pristine luggage.
On the way to the villa, Lou and Sasha shared stories, talking about people they knew in common. Sasha had spent many summers in Italy. I stared out the window, wanting to pinch myself. Was this for real? But something in my head nagged at me. Two weeks. I had two weeks in Venice, and then I’d have to return to the nightmare that was my real life. To the Frigidaire box under the bridge.
Sasha seemed to sense my mood. She put one hand on top of mine and squeezed. “Everything will work out,” she said. “Relax.”
I saw Lou put one hand on top of Sasha’s thigh and squeeze.
“Relax,” Sasha said again, softer.
The word must mean something different in Venice, I thought.
* * *
I don’t know what time it was when we arrived. New York time? Italian time? All I knew was that I was the walking dead. In a blur, Lou and Sasha led me through the grand entrance to the villa. I saw a tree in the foyer covered all over with small squares of white paper. We stopped here, and Lou said, “There’s a tradition.”
“A tradition?” I echoed. I could hardly make my mouth work.
“Write a wish,” Sasha said. “I’ll hang the paper on a branch for you.”
I gripped the pencil in my fist and scrawled something almost illegible on the squared. Sasha smiled, and moved us on. I caught glimpses of mirrors, dreamy-looking sofas, hanging rugs. But my eyes couldn’t focus. Sasha tucked me into a guest room and told me that my mind would be clearer in the morning. “You have both a champagne and travel hangover,” she said. “Sleep it off.”
“I haven’t even met our host,” I told her, feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t want to behave impolitely from the start. Not to someone so generous as to take me in for free.
“He’s a traveler, himself. He’ll understand.”
I stripped down to my T-shirt and boy briefs and climbed into the huge, welcoming bed. I’d been worrying for months, now. The weight of the heavy duvet lulled me. For the first time since I’d lost my last job, I felt safe. I was asleep in seconds.
But I didn’t stay asleep for long.
At some point during the night, I woke, feeling scared and alone. Was I in Joyce’s tiny, cat-smelly apartment? No. I’d never been in a bed this comfortable before.
I, on the other hand, looked exactly like someone who had slept in my clothes—which I had. Sasha didn’t say anything about my rumpled turtleneck and messy ringlets. But she pulled a sumptuous indigo velvet shawl from her woven leather messenger bag and wrapped the length around me, pinning the cloth effortlessly with a rhinestone broach. In seconds, I’d captured a little of her style. Sasha is so high-end, she rubs off on the people around her. Without a word, she twisted my black hair into a makeshift bun and used a silver barrette to hold the curls in place.
A man in a suit stood at our gate. He was bald and heavily muscled with a ginger-colored goatee. Uncle Stefan , I thought, feeling pleased with myself for having so easily imagined the man. Maybe he was younger and less paunchy than I’d guessed, but I had nailed his basic appearance.
“Lou!” squealed Sasha, confusing me as she embraced the man. “Ellis, this is Lou. He works for Stefan. Lou, this is Ellis.”
Lou shook my hand, and I wondered if he could see the difference between the two of us. Sasha, effortless with her money. Me, a poor church mouse on scholarship.
“You’re just as lovely as Sasha described,” he said. His accent was distinctly Irish, and charming. I felt my cheeks go pink at his words. The scarf slid a little and I hitched the burnt-out velvet back onto my shoulders. If he could discern the fact that I was in the empty-pocket club, he didn’t show the knowledge in his expression. He treated us equally, following us to the baggage claim, not appearing at all judgmental about my battered suitcase in comparison to Sasha’s pristine luggage.
On the way to the villa, Lou and Sasha shared stories, talking about people they knew in common. Sasha had spent many summers in Italy. I stared out the window, wanting to pinch myself. Was this for real? But something in my head nagged at me. Two weeks. I had two weeks in Venice, and then I’d have to return to the nightmare that was my real life. To the Frigidaire box under the bridge.
Sasha seemed to sense my mood. She put one hand on top of mine and squeezed. “Everything will work out,” she said. “Relax.”
I saw Lou put one hand on top of Sasha’s thigh and squeeze.
“Relax,” Sasha said again, softer.
The word must mean something different in Venice, I thought.
* * *
I don’t know what time it was when we arrived. New York time? Italian time? All I knew was that I was the walking dead. In a blur, Lou and Sasha led me through the grand entrance to the villa. I saw a tree in the foyer covered all over with small squares of white paper. We stopped here, and Lou said, “There’s a tradition.”
“A tradition?” I echoed. I could hardly make my mouth work.
“Write a wish,” Sasha said. “I’ll hang the paper on a branch for you.”
I gripped the pencil in my fist and scrawled something almost illegible on the squared. Sasha smiled, and moved us on. I caught glimpses of mirrors, dreamy-looking sofas, hanging rugs. But my eyes couldn’t focus. Sasha tucked me into a guest room and told me that my mind would be clearer in the morning. “You have both a champagne and travel hangover,” she said. “Sleep it off.”
“I haven’t even met our host,” I told her, feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t want to behave impolitely from the start. Not to someone so generous as to take me in for free.
“He’s a traveler, himself. He’ll understand.”
I stripped down to my T-shirt and boy briefs and climbed into the huge, welcoming bed. I’d been worrying for months, now. The weight of the heavy duvet lulled me. For the first time since I’d lost my last job, I felt safe. I was asleep in seconds.
But I didn’t stay asleep for long.
At some point during the night, I woke, feeling scared and alone. Was I in Joyce’s tiny, cat-smelly apartment? No. I’d never been in a bed this comfortable before.
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