Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

three," he quipped. "Let's just think about us. About what makes us happy for the next few days. Our client, as much as we personally dislike him, has given us a golden holiday. Let's focus on that and on us, on our passion for historic architecture, our love of beautiful villas, on the sights we're going to see. Let's focus on each other."
    I returned his joyous smile. He was right, as usual. I put my head on his shoulder and felt myself truly relax. Then I thought it was time to tell him something I had not told anyone yet, not even Melanie, something that I had scarcely acknowledged to myself.
    "I had a visitor this afternoon while I was packing," I murmured, my eyes remaining closed. "A process server. Nick has started divorce proceedings. I have no reason to fight a divorce. So in a year, I'll be a single woman again."
    I lifted my head and looked into his eyes to see his reaction. Jubilant? Triumphant?
    What I saw there was concern, concern for me. He squeezed my hand as he regarded me solemnly. "I know how hard this is for you, Ashley. I know how you hate failure. But this is for the best and I think that deep down you know it is. It's time to let go."
    "Yes," I whispered and rested my head on his shoulder again where to my astonishment I cat napped through the flight.

15

    The unseasonably warm weather we had back home followed us to Italy. Groggy and stiff from sitting on the plane all night, we staggered through customs and out into the late morning sunshine to find a cab. After we checked into the Hotel Firenze, all I wanted was a bed. No sightseeing for me, not until my aching body had lain prone for several hours. We didn't even take time to marvel at the hotel's sixteenth century architecture, barely glancing up at the marble facade with its iron arches. Later.
    Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, I went to my room and Jon went to his. I closed the draperies and slept until mid-afternoon when Jon knocked on my door to rouse me.
    "Hey, sleepy head, Venice awaits. Come on. Get dressed. I'll wait for you on the fifth floor balcony. Wear something pretty." He was gone.
    Wear something pretty. Hmmmm . I had brought my girly clothes, leaving my work clothes at home. Melanie sarcastically refers to my khaki pants and denim shirts and my steel-toed construction boots as my "construction wear chic."
    I unpacked a flirty skirt, a sweater set, and flat sandals. And in case the evening cooled down, a cashmere shawl that had belonged to mama. A quick shower, a flick of a hair brush, a touch of makeup and I was on the elevator to the fifth floor in less than thirty minutes.
    Jon was at a table with a carafe of coffee. He stood when I approached and again his expression mellowed, telling me how happy he was to see me. "Hi gorgeous," he said, his customary greeting for me, and he kissed my cheek. "You look pretty."
    "I need some of that," I said.
    "Be prepared. It's really strong. The Italians like it that way."
    He filled my cup. "To us," he said.
    "To us," I repeated, and took a sip. "Wow! That's powerful." But I drank it all and asked for another.
    "Look at this view!" I exclaimed.
    Our hotel was located in the historic center of Venice. The city stretched out below us. There was a gorgeous view of the basin and the San Marco basilica.
    "I want to see the square," I said. "I'm ready."
    "We'll find a sidewalk cafe there," Jon said, echoing my enthusiasm. "I'm hungry."
    The Piazza San Marco -- the famous St. Mark's Square -- was a short walk from our hotel. Loggias lined three sides of the square, offering unobstructed views of St. Mark's basilica. Over the arched entrance were the four famous gilded bronze horses so life-like they looked like they might gallop off the facade and into the square at any moment. We walked inside the dusky cathedral to gaze around and to examine a white marble tomb where the remains of St. Mark reposed.
    Next we toured the Doge's Palace, admiring paintings by Tintoretto and Veronese.
    And there was the Bridge of Sighs that led into a prison.
    "Everything looks just like it does in the movies," I said as we held hands and strolled through the crowds, peering into the windows of luxury shops and elegant hotels.
    "It does," Jon marveled. "Pigeons and all."
    The pigeons flocked at our feet, and settled on statues and balustrades, and women in stalls rattled little packets of maize, inviting us to buy, to feed the pigeons.
    "They built this square in the eleventh century," Jon said.