Chapter Three
Three
The Secrets of Cannaregio
Daisy
O ne of the most fascinating things about Venice is the total absence of cars in the historical center. Or bikes, for that matter. In fact, if you’re not boating, the only way to move around is by foot.
That’s one of the reasons I instantly fell in love with the city.
I love LA, but if there is one thing I don’t like about it, it’s the traffic. I hate being so dependent on my car—the traffic jams on the oversize freeways, the long commute to Santa Monica, the gas prices, the insurance fees, and the mechanic bills.
Walking here, I feel light and free. My eyes rejoice at the breathtaking view while my ears are soothed by the gentle sound of seawater lapping against ancient stone foundations.
I wouldn’t live here, though , I quickly think. I might be enchanted by Venice, but I wouldn’t change my beloved California and its tall, skinny palm trees for anything.
My goal is to leave the Valley at some point and move to Santa Monica or Venice Beach, where I’ll be closer to work. I’ll be walking a lot more then, even if it’s just taking a beach stroll before my shift at my oceanfront restaurant. That’s life. It’s what I’m working toward.
I’m so close now. Dad’s house has been sold.
Nick got his share, and mine is safe in my bank account, ready for when I sign the papers.
When I get home, I’ll have a last meeting with the current owners of La Veneziana , the same couple who bought it from my dad three years ago.
And then the restaurant will be in our family again, and I’ll make Dad’s dream— our dream—come true.
I’ll come back from this trip full of inspiration and turn what became a generic, cliché Italian restaurant in the hands of the amateurish couple into the authentic Italian experience it was under Dad’s management.
I know what went wrong and why, and so did he.
The heart, the flavors, and the ambiance were there.
But our strategy, planning, and administration of resources failed.
Dad wanted to be bold, to reinvent the concept to save the business, but I didn’t believe it was a risk worth taking.
I do now. I’d always agreed with his ideas, I just lacked the courage to leave my—our—comfort zone.
Now I will make it happen. For us. I will follow his plan, with caution but no fear. I will dig deep into our heritage and honor it—honor the Italian grandfather I never met, honor Dad, and take a leap of faith so I can have the safety I dream of.
Jeremy—the safest, most reliable thing in my life—is now right next to me in the picture I’ve painted of my future, replacing Ryan, who had replaced Good Guy I’ll Meet Someday.
There’s no better place for our romance to start than here in Venice.
We’re both vulnerable, rearranging our minds and hearts, which should technically mean it’s not a good time.
But we need each other more than ever, and this realization might be exactly what it takes to find the love we both deserve.
I glance at Jeremy frequently as we walk the complex network of stone-paved streets.
We follow our private guide, and I like that Lorenzo lets us look around and enjoy the intriguing surroundings at our own pace.
I also appreciate that he tries to blend in with the crowd so we can feel as though we’re alone.
The problem is that I can’t ignore his presence.
Knowing he’s there makes me overly aware of the fact that we’re not alone. That a guy—a hot one, for that matter—is only a few steps ahead, watching us.
A hot one? What the hell, Daisy?
I try to focus on the city. And on Jeremy, the good guy who fits perfectly in my life and my plans. We’re having fun. This is cool. It’s going to work.
We walk down the Fontamenta dei Ormesini, a walkway in the Cannaregio district along a straight canal with bridges here and there connecting the area with other patches of land.
It’s calm here and more local, which I like. I think that was one of Lorenzo’s points—to show us an area the Venetians frequent so we get away from the touristy San Marco district.
“You should come here for a night out,” Lorenzo says, looking over his shoulder, now only two steps ahead of us. “You’ll find bars with great aperitivos .”
“Hmm, nice,” I say because I always appreciate tips on places to eat and drink.
Lorenzo knows that now, as he saw my excitement when he stopped at the Strada Nuova shopping street for us to buy a fritoìn —a paper cone filled with fried seafood that is one of the classic Venetian street foods I had to try.
I’m in an excellent mood following good food and a scenic walk. Jeremy’s hangover is basically out of the way, and we’re chatting and laughing like we normally do.
We approach another bridge. We’ve crossed so many that I’ve lost count. Lorenzo told us there are more than four hundred bridges in the city. It’s amazing.
“Ready for one of the best-kept secrets in this area?” he says as we cross Ponte della Misericordia toward another part of the city that I would never have explored without his guidance. “It’s a very romantic place,” he adds.
After maybe ten more minutes of walking down the pedestrian streets of Cannaregio, we stop in a narrow street facing a residential entrance.
“Here we are,” Lorenzo says, and I look around, puzzled. Are we going to visit someone?
He rings the bell, we’re buzzed in, and he smiles as he looks at my confused expression, which doesn’t last long. Because suddenly we are within the walls of a secret garden inside a large courtyard.
It’s so beautiful and unexpected that my mouth hangs open for a few seconds as I spin around to observe every angle of the place.
It’s a botanical garden and an orchard, and the white wisteria, the rose bushes, the hibiscus, the petunias, and the dahlias create a spectacular merge of color that makes me smile broadly.
“Wow, eh?” Jeremy walks in my direction, also happily inhaling the sweet scent of Italian spring.
We smile at each other. I feel tempted to hold his hand, but it’s too early for that. Instead, we stroll side by side along the green tunnel of plants that stretches from a pretty marble staircase to an altar where a small statue of the Virgin Mary rests.
“It’s a convent,” I say, looking at the religious figure.
“Yes,” Jeremy confirms. “Lorenzo said the garden is currently under the care of a community of nuns.”
I look over my shoulder, but Lorenzo is nowhere in sight, again displaying his invisibility skills.
“In the sixteenth century, this place belonged to a wealthy family that ran a casino,” Jeremy tells me.
“We don’t need Lorenzo anymore,” I say with a teasing smirk. “You can be my tour guide from now on.”
Jeremy smiles. “I just listen while you’re distracted with food.”
“There’s no food here, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Pomegranates? Figs? Apricots?” He looks in the direction of the fruit garden. “You don’t call that food?”
I bump my shoulder against his.
“Should we steal some?” he asks with the boyish look he’s had since he was seven. The one that means he’s ready for mischief. When we were kids, I’d always argue with him or walk away if I thought he might land us in trouble.
“I’m pretty sure stealing fruit from a convent will send you straight to hell,” I say.
“I have a first-class ticket there already,” he replies in the joking way he talks about religion.
That’s something we don’t have in common. Jeremy doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see. While, even though I’m practical, I have faith in many things I can’t be certain are possible.
I try to focus on the romantic moment we’re supposed to be experiencing, but with Jeremy it’s hard to take anything seriously. He’s wiggling his fingers toward the nearest tree, threatening to help himself to a fruit he shouldn’t take.
“I’m doing it,” he warns. “My uncle Frank had figs in his garden and let me tell you—eating figs straight off the tree is the best thing in the world.”
“Really?” I mock his overstatement. “Better than Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ben & Jerry’s on a hot beach morning?” That has been his definition of happiness for the past two years.
“Better than sex ,” he puts exaggerated emphasis on the “profane” word, and we both look at the virgin on the altar.
“Wow,” I say with no inflection. “Alice must have been terrible in bed.”
I bite my tongue when the joke comes out, afraid it is too much and will hurt his bruised feelings. But if he does feel a pinch in the heart, he doesn’t let me notice it.
“Yeah, well, it’s all I think about now.” He stares at me with a serious face. “Holy figs.”
I laugh. “I thought I was the one distracted with food.” Then I censor him with my eyes. “You’re supposed to be stealing flowers for me, if anything.”
Jeremy is not exactly the romantic type.
It’s often I who needs to remind him of his anniversaries—and even more often, I’m the one to pick a suitable gift for the girl he’s dating.
It’s depressing, to be honest. A woman should be pampered by her lover because he wants to pamper—and knows how to please her—not because he feels it’s something he’s expected to do.
“Daisy,” Jeremy fake reprimands me. “I know you. Food is your thing, not flowers, so I’m doing this for you.”
“You’re doing it?” Now I’m sincerely afraid.
Suddenly, I wonder if I’m not in love with him because I know his flaws. Could my knowledge of how he is as a partner be the reason I’ve never felt like being his girlfriend?
I remind myself: Jeremy doesn’t cheat. Jeremy is loyal and respectful. He’s patient, chill, and funny. He’s imperfect, of course, like we all are, but there’s much to love about him, and my body will soon realize that, I’m sure.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” He gives me his most convincing line. I wonder why he’s doing this now. He can’t stand talking to me in a romantic garden? Does he need to fill the silence with something that will make us laugh so it’s not awkward?
That’s not how it’s supposed to be…
“Jeremy,” I warn him.