The Chapel by Michael Downing Read Free Book Online Page A

“We’ve lost our guide. Where did he go?”
    Anna said, “Oh, handsome men.” She led us to the elevator and waited until the door slid closed to say, “At night, they are forever young.”

III

    I woke early, and warm, and absolutely convinced that Mitchell would turn up at any moment with two coffees and an English-language newspaper. Delusions like this were often the high point of my day, and I had learned to lie still whenever I sensed the possibility of him, which was real but evanescent, like a single note struck on a piano. Had I been at home, I would have eventually rolled off the sofa and followed the well-worn path to the kitchen or the mailbox, but in Italy every next thing involved strangers, and street maps, and translations, and confusion, and two huge suitcases to pack and unpack and repack. I didn’t want to think about what came next every hour on the hour for the next thirty days.
    I had done my duty. Veni, vedi, pizza. Now, I wanted to go home.
    For a few grim minutes, I forced myself to lie there in bed, eyes closed, trying to imagine how I would explain my return to Rachel. But even that excruciating inevitability seemed inconsequential next to the delightful image of me standing in the lobby beside a young man in a tuxedo with my suitcases, waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport in Venice.
    I was going home. The only obstacle in my way was breakfast.
    I opened the window, and the hum and buzz of traffic poured into my room, followed by a stream of cool, damp air that soon chased me right into the shower. All went well until I had to choose a blouse or pullover for the long day of travel ahead. After rejecting the obvious options, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. My damp hair was dark, and the expensive new layers and soft fringe of my semi-permanent caramel-brown dye job were clinging to my neck and forehead like a black tattoo. I was slimmer than I’d been in years, thanks to a diet of coffee, Cheerios, and a weekly plastic vat of yogurt-covered raisins (I was in mourning). Still, the overall impression was not improved by the godawful walking shoes, which made it clear I was not really five foot five as I liked to believe, and the stretchy jeans weren’t doing my thighs any favors. But what did me in was the superfluous sheath of skin that drooped like a sausage casing from just beneath my bra and pooled up at the pleated-elastic waistband. If I’d seen me in those jeans in the changing room before yoga, I’d have nixed the raisins.
    Thus the invention of the shirtdress. I unrolled the three I’d packed and hung them in the closet. Beneath them, I lined up the espadrilles, the open-toed pumps, and the leather wedge sandals. This improved my spirits. I didn’t immediately choose the navy blue, beige, or lilac. I unhitched Rachel’s clever red canvas bag from its wheels, tossed in my wallet, cell phone, and reading glasses. I dried my hair, occasionally glancing at the dresses in the closet, as if conferring with three girlfriends. After I strapped on the Swiss Army watch Mitchell wore every day of his working life, which fit me like a bangle, I stuck my hand out the window. It was still cool, so I opted for the navy blue and the espadrilles.
    It was 7:04. Breakfast was now officially not being served at the buffet. But as I walked past the desk in the lobby and turned to the restaurant, three of the touring wives and one husband were blockingthe entrance. One of the women turned hopefully to me and then said, “Oh, hello there. I don’t suppose you know where the staff is?”
    â€œI’m meeting a friend,” I said, and headed for the front door.
    Outside, two green-vested men were smoking, leaning back against the sill of one of the windows of the restaurant. As I approached, they both looked at their watches and said something apologetic.
    â€œI’m looking for a