Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

"And there used to be a canal that flowed through it. We think we've got old at home, living in a city that was incorporated in 1739, but the culture here, think about it. And the architecture. It's so classically Italian Renaissance."
    "It's harmonious. Everything looks like it belongs, not one jarring element. Oh! A free table. Grab it. I'm starving."
    We hurried to a vacant table at an outdoor cafe.
    "What's more Italian than pizza," Jon said. "That's what I'm having." He grinned.
    I grinned back. "Me too. Pizza is perfect for breakfast, lunch, or dinner and I have no idea which meal this is. My internal clock is really messed up but, oh, this is fun!"
    Our waiter spoke English. Everyone spoke English. We ordered Chianti and pizza.
    Jon reached across the table and took my hand. "I wouldn't want to share this experience with anyone but you."
    I smiled into his eyes. "I feel the same way," I said, and meant it.
    Who else loved the exact same things that I loved but Jon? We were a fit, I suddenly realized. We'd always been a perfect fit. He was my best friend, the person I had the most in common with, the person who knew me best, the person I trusted most.
    As darkness settled, we held hands and wandered through the historic center of the city. People were out, men gathered on corners in little cliques, young mothers with strollers, children, dogs, old people. The city was alive, vital, as if everyone had turned out for a party. We marveled at the sights, the beauty, the architecture, drinking it all in, memorizing so we wouldn't forget.
    Jon took a few pictures but mostly we just looked. The camera seemed to intrude on our intimacy so he abandoned it.
    Outside my room at the Hotel Firenze, he asked, "May I come in?" And he sounded shy.
    "Of course," I replied. "I've got a small balcony. Let's go out there."
    We stood on the balcony admiring the city lights, the lights from St. Mark's Square. We wrapped our arms around each and held each other as we admired the view, told each other, Pinch me so I'll know I'm not dreaming; we're really here. This is not a dream.
    "It's always been you, Ashley," he murmured.
    He pulled me closer. I snuggled in his arms, let out a long sigh, realizing I'd been holding my breath. I inhaled the smell of his neck. He smelled of aftershave and pizza and of sunshine.
    And then I did something a part of me has been wanting to do for two years. I reached my arms up around his neck and lifted my face to be kissed.
    And Jon kissed me. Our first kiss. His lips were soft but firm. Not demanding, not taking, just very giving. The kiss lasted for what seemed like an eternity because time stood still. I didn't want it to end, and I was glad he was holding me up because my knees started to buckle.
    "Where did you learn to kiss like that?" I asked, surprised and thrilled at the same time.
    He smiled at me. "It's easy when you're kissing the right person."
    "Yes," I agreed and smiled so broadly I thought my jaw might break.

    In the morning we hired a driver to take us to the five Palladio villas. Jon had not spent the night with me. Neither of us was ready for that. We were taking it slowly. There was plenty of time. Everything had to be right, and timing, I was discovering, was crucial to success.
    We drove into the suburbs to see Palladio's Villa Rotonda . "Reminds me of Monticello," I said as we toured the grounds.
    "I've seen pictures of this place," Jon said. "I can't believe I'm really seeing it in person. Andrea Palladio was probably the most influential architect of all time. He influenced Jefferson and classical American architecture. Why, even the houses being built today have Palladian windows."
    Next we drove to the village of Maser to see the Villa Barbaro that had been built in 1558 on the ruins of a medieval castle. "And Palladio was influenced by the classic temples of Greece and Rome. Nothing new under the sun." Inside we admired more frescoes painted by Veronese.
    We had lunch in the hill town of Asolo in a small family-run restaurant. Again dining was al fresco. "Just like home," I told Jon. "What is there about eating out of doors that sharpens the appetite?"
    "I'm glad you've got your appetite back. I was worried about you there for a while."
    After lunch the Italians took siesta but Jon and I and our driver completed the Palladio tour. We were pressed for time. Tomorrow we'd drive to Lucca. As soon as we had known we were coming to Italy, we had agreed that a tour of Palladio's