The Christmas Bells of Cavazzale Read online

  A note was stuck on the sealed envelope with the letter from Nonna. Her grandmother had asked Charly to read it while in the house in Italy. She wanted to spend time alone exploring the small Italian town, its food, culture, and especially her grandmother’s heritage.

  Nonna had talked often of taking Charly to the Cavazzale house, but Charly had been so busy with high school studies and activities that she couldn’t leave, and then with college and her obsession with making the dean’s list every semester. After college came the new job and all that entailed. She’d missed out on the opportunity to see her grandmother’s home with her grandmother.

  When her flight to Venice was announced, she stood causing her boarding pass to slip from her purse and onto the floor.

  A longhaired man with dark eyes stooped to pick it up. “I believe you dropped this.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted the pass from his outstretched hand and took in his radiant smile. His unusual accent piqued her curiosity.

  Long wavy hair, beard, and dark eyes added to his allure. He followed her into the same boarding line. The subtle scent of dark chocolate and musk radiated through the air between them—elevating her senses and making her acutely aware of his presence.

  “This your first time in Venice?”

  Charly averted her gaze when his velvet-brown eyes pierced through her. “Yes.” She didn’t want to engage in conversation. She boarded the plane and found her seat. Mr. Handsome sat two seats in front of her.

  She arrived in Venice too excited to head directly to Cavazzale. After taking a bus from the airport to downtown Venice, she stood on top of a foot-traffic bridge to take in the view. The Grand Canal loomed before her. Large barge-like boats sped on the water. Few people milled about on the narrow streets along the channel. Walking the short distance to the Santa Lucia train station, Charly stored her luggage and set out to explore the historic city. The travel guide showed the best way to get to St. Mark’s Basilica.

  At the crest of the bridge crossing the Grand Canal, she stopped once again to admire the stone buildings lining either side of the canal, their terra cotta roofs reflecting the morning sun. Boats large and small powered along in both directions. Boat taxis bobbed at a nearby dock while tourists waited in line to board. Should she take a water taxi to the basilica? No. She wanted to see the inner activities.

  Vendors opened their doors and began setting their merchandise along the cobblestone street. The shops filled with carnival masks, Murano glass, leather goods, and hats drew her in. She paused to snap a picture of a boat painted in the familiar colors of a worldwide package delivery service with large yellow letters on its side. Several boxes of varying sizes filled its deck.

  Excitement suppressed her fatigue and she absorbed the flavors of the ancient city. She followed the yellow San Marco signs on the buildings and made her way to the church.

  “Hello again. Are you going to St. Mark’s Square?” The man from the plane stepped in stride next to her.

  This guy was a stranger, and she didn’t want to hang out with him.

  “I’m André Lagneaux from N’awlins, Louisiana.”

  That explained the unusual accent.

  “I hope I’m not overstepping. If I am, please say so.”

  “Look, Mr. Lagneaux, I don’t know you and honestly, I’d like to be alone.” She was alone in a foreign country. No matter how nice he seemed she couldn’t afford to let her guard down.

  His smile faded and his shoulders slumped a bit. “Sure, no problem. I hope you have a blessed day.” He turned and increased his pace in the same direction Charly headed.

  ~*~

  André strode toward St. Mark’s Basilica. So much for trying to be nice to the very beautiful, young American woman. He should have known better. With each step on the cobbled streets, André marveled at the ancient buildings and the canals along each bridge. Venice. He stood in Venice. It was quite the experience for the boy who grew up on the bayou in Terrebonne Parish. A flashing thought made him smile—most of his childhood buddies would be looking for a fishing pole to capture whatever fish lurked in the canals.

  As he exited a narrow passage, St. Mark’s Square appeared. He took in the statues on the top of the basilica. His mother would have been squealing with delight.

  Surprised that only a few people waited in line to enter the cathedral, André found his place behind an elderly couple. “Hello.”

  “Hello.” The man nodded. “American?”

  André nodded.“ Louisiana, N’awlins.”

  The man extended his hand. “James Anderson.” He pointed to the petite, gray-haired woman standing next to him. “My wife, Libby. We’re from Minnesota. We’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans.”

  “André Lagneaux.”

  When he entered the ornate wooden doors of the cathedral, he inhaled deeply. Memories of his childhood rushed back with the fragrance of old wood, the acrid scent of stale incense, and the lingering aroma of a thousand years and millions of visitors.

  André drew close to the stairs to purchase his ticket to the upstairs museum. Others were behind him and he glanced back to make sure he wasn’t crowding anyone. The beautiful American woman was behind him, headed for the same stairs.

  Quattro

  Charly’s view as she went up the stairs was blocked by the man from Louisiana. His roguish good looks and sturdy physique, especially his broad, muscular shoulders, were emphasized by the form-fitting cashmere sweater he wore. The burgundy color enhanced the black hair that looked silky and soft as it fell in waves down his back. He’s not my type.

  Maybe if she focused on the beauty of the cathedral and stayed a step away he wouldn’t notice her. She breathed in his musky, chocolate-y scent mingled with the earthly aromas of the thousand year-old building. His deep, soothing voice resonated in the high-ceilinged narthex as he spoke to an elderly man. Their conversation flowed as he raved about some restaurant in New Orleans.

  He turned her way. “Well, hello again.”

  “Hello.” Charly angled her head backward and met his luminous brown eyes. Her legs quivered a bit so she shifted her weight. “Again.” He’d told her his name earlier, but she’d forgotten. She’d never looked twice at a man with such long hair and dark features. She’d always been attracted to the clean-cut type. She shifted her gaze to dodge the heat from his piercing scrutiny.

  He began the ascent of the narrow stairway. She climbed, but her only view was his long legs as they went up the steep, asymmetrical steps. When he stopped, her head nearly crashed into his backside.

  He shifted to the side and peered down toward her. “All right down there?”

  She leaned back and accidentally pushed into the person behind her. When she turned to apologize, a middle-aged man with greasy hair combed over to one side greeted her with a suggestive grin and raised eyebrows.

  “Scusa,” she said and continued forward.

  He spoke in a foreign language. His sneering laugh spoke volumes.

  She tried to hurry after purchasing her ticket to put some distance between her and the greasy-haired man. Her foot snagged on an uneven stone, sending her directly into his arms. He steadied her but seemed to hold on a bit longer than necessary. Garlic and cigarette odor emanated from him, and a smug leer crossed his face.

  She extracted herself and placed both hands on the handrail to quickly descend the steep stairs. The main entrance was blocked by a group of school children. Before long, the nauseating scent of garlic and cigarettes wafted toward her. His presence behind her was unnerving.

  He mumbled something to his friend and then tapped her on the shoulder.

  When she turned, his ogling eyes filled her vision.

  He spoke.

  “Non capisco. Thank you, for helping. Goodbye.” She waved and walked away.

  He followed close behind.

  As she turned to let him know that his advances were not welcome, a hand touched her arm. She spun to find the man from New Orleans next to her.r />
  “There you are, darling,” he whispered, and rattled something in another language to the other man. Not Italian. French maybe? The man’s smile melted. Her knight in cashmere laced his fingers through hers and guided her into the ornate main portal of the cathedral. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

  ~*~

  The disappointed look on the Frenchman’s face satisfied André’s protective streak.

  The young woman lost the creases between her brows, and her lips actually curved into a smile. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m saving you from this man who believes you have come on to him.”

  “Oh, my. What language were you speaking?” She slid her hand from his and cleared her throat. “Do I want to know what he said?”

  “French.” His voice was muted. “And no, you don’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  They toured the church together. He marveled at the mosaics covering the entire ceiling and support pillars. From a distance they appeared as gold paint, but on closer inspection the tiny gold tiles emerged. He couldn’t conceive beginning this grand building in the ninth century knowing it would take several generations before it was completed. He pointed to the ceiling. “The mosaics are my favorite. Can you imagine making them? Putting together those tiny tiles like a massive puzzle.”

  “This is magnificent. I can’t imagine how much time and effort this took. It blows my mind.”

  As she turned, this stranger whose name he’d yet to learn, fascinated him almost as much as the cathedral. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders. Her cornflower-blue eyes made it hard for him to look away.

  She turned and caught him staring. “Um…Mr. Na…um, I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name.”

  “André” He knew what was coming—the I-can-take-care-of-myself speech.

  “André,” she whispered. “I thank you for rescuing me from the Frenchman, but I think I’ll be fine from now on.” She walked ahead toward the milling tourists.

  It would have been nice to share the historic works with someone who seemed to adore them as much as he did.

  Cinque

  On the second floor of the cathedral, Charly ventured onto the balcony overlooking the square and its beauty made her gasp. She turned toward the water, closed her eyes, and let the cool breeze brush her face. She wanted to savor every bit of her Italian adventure.

  Such history. Such passion for creating beauty. She left the church and walked along the shoreline. Moored gondolas danced in the waves. A few artists braved the wind and threat of rain to offer their paintings. She climbed the steps of an open bridge and sidled next to tourists snapping pictures. The famous Bridge of Sighs came into view. The name originated from the sound the prisoners made as they crossed the bridge on their way to prison.

  The grumble of her stomach reminded her why she’d ventured this way. She turned down a narrow street where a Ristorante sign captured her attention. She gazed into the window and found a mouth-watering display of seafood on ice. Framed photos of farms and paintings covered the walls, and white tablecloths draped the tables. The subtle strains of Vivaldi filtered through the air. A few people filled the tables closest to the front window. A waiter wearing a white jacket with black pants approached.

  “Table for one.” She raised one finger, hoping he understood.

  “Si. This way, please.”

  She followed him toward a smaller room with various vases, paintings, and objects on the walls. He pointed to a table with two chairs and pulled one out for her. When he stepped aside for her to sit, she caught a glimpse of the patron sitting at the table next to hers.

  A teasing grin and sparkling brown eyes greeted her. How could a stranger unsettle her so? Now he’d think she was following him. “Hello again.” André’s smile sent electric spikes through her. He pointed to the chair across the table. “Care to join me?”

  Surprisingly she did. He’d piqued her curiosity. “Sure.” She turned to the waiter. “I’ll sit with him.”

  “It’s good to see you again.” She gave the waiter her drink order then turned toward André. “Thanks again for getting the Frenchman to back off earlier.”

  “No problem. Are you staying in Venice?” he asked.

  “No, I’m visiting here, but will be staying in a small town elsewhere.”

  “Me too. A small town where my brother and his family live. It’s called Cavazzale. Have you ever heard of it?”

  ~*~

  “So, shall we try again?” He extended his hand. “I’m André Lagneaux, and you are?”

  “Oh, I guess I haven’t told you my name.” She placed her hand in his. “I’m Charleston Maynard. My friends call me Charly.”

  “Does that mean I can call you Charly, too?”

  A beaming smile and a nod from her caused his heart to pause.

  “Yes.”

  Maybe they could be friends for this small time that their paths crossed.

  “I’ll be spending a month in Cavazzale. I’m excited to see my godchild, Isabella, and my niece, Marielle.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Isabella is five and Marielle is three. So what are you having?”

  “Shrimp and the gnocchi in cheese sauce.” She grinned. “My Italian roommate cooked it and I loved it. So I have to try it here.”

  “I’ll stick with my favorite Italian dish, lasagna.”

  The waiter approached, placed a carafe of water on the table, and then took their orders.

  They chatted while waiting for their food, but she was careful not to divulge too much information about herself. They both oohed and ahhed over their delicious dishes. When the check came, André reached for it and tucked his credit card under the ticket.

  “Here.” She reached for the bill. “Let me pay my part.”

  “It’s on me, and I won’t hear otherwise.” He moved the check out of her reach. “Consider it a truce meal since I stole you from your future French husband.”

  Her eyes widened and a smile crept onto her face. “No way. That guy was a bit on the creepy side. I should be buying you lunch.”

  “My treat.”

  After he paid the check, he helped her slide into her coat and then they walked toward the door. Once out in the streets of Venice, awkwardness engulfed him. Would she walk with him back to the train station? “Well, I’m headed to the train station. I’d like to get to Cavazzale before it gets dark.”

  She continued walking right past him. “Yes, me, too.”

  “You’re going to the train station, too?”

  “Yep. And I, too, would like to get to Cavazzale before it gets dark.”

  She was traveling to Cavazzale? Maybe he’d been too forthcoming with his information. Had he mistaken her shyness for some calculating deception? Was she now following him?

  Sei

  Unsettling André sparked a smile from Charly. Once on the train, she slid into the chair next to an elderly woman to avoid the possibility of him sitting next to her. She needed to recalibrate her life, and she couldn’t do that while involved with any man—especially a handsome, confident one like André

  Nonna’s words buzzed in her head. You can make all the plans you want, but God knows what is in store for you. His plans are not always your plans. The truth of those words resonated.

  The Italian landscape, dotted with villas against the backdrop of the Italian Alps, rolled by. Gratitude filled her heart. What an awesome opportunity she’d been given—like a gift from above. Faith hadn’t played a huge role in her life lately. Had God been in those circumstances? Even though I haven’t? Too many negative things happened for God to be in them. Besides, she relied more on herself and her own capabilities than on a God Who could let her nonna die when Charly needed the woman the most.

  At the Vicenza depot Charly bought a ticket and scrambled into the smaller train headed to Cavazzale. She’d memorized the directions to her house. Once she was settled, she’d read her grandmother’s letter.

/>   The sun was low in the sky and cast subdued shadows on the countryside. She hadn’t seen André board. Maybe she wouldn’t have to see those arresting eyes and that intriguing smile again. And maybe she could forget them as well.

  ~*~

  André settled into a seat in the back facing forward so he could enjoy the scenery. He checked the directions to the house his parents had rented. Shouldn’t be too far a walk.

  As the train rolled along, glimpses of the Alps filled his window. The sun descending into the western sky cast a brilliant orange hue on the peaks of snow-capped mountains. A trip into the mountains might be fun. Maybe he would venture out on his own. Maybe he and Edmond could take a skiing trip if time allowed. Maybe become the brothers they once were. André and Edmond had been best friends, but with Edmond’s deployments and André’s struggle to get the gallery up and running, they’d drifted apart.

  Before long, Cavazzale scrolled across the digital display that announced the next stop. Maybe he’d go into Vicenza one day and enjoy the sights there, too. He could at least walk through the city on his own and eat his way through the day followed by coffee at its numerous coffee shops.

  He detrained at the Cavazzale station—a classic old depot. The center of town had a tall bell tower. The bells began tolling as though calling to him.

  Charly was walking ahead of him down the narrow street. Had she said why she was visiting Cavazzale? He couldn’t remember. Every time he talked to her, her words floated in the air between them. He spent the entire time they were together lost in her captivating blue eyes.

  The tantalizing aroma of a small pizzeria made his stomach growl. Perfect. He’d return once he settled into his rental.

  Sette

  Charly’s brisk walk from the station awakened her senses, despite her fatigue from the trip. Once at her new home she could throw off her killer shoes and rest. Please, let there be lots of hot water and a deep tub.

  At the gate, she fished keys from her purse. Once inside, the lingering scent of lemon hung in the air of the small house. She flipped light switches and brought the place to life. A comfortable-looking old couch was flanked by three floor-to-ceiling windows along the front that were covered by retractable shutters. Two orange side chairs faced the beige couch to form a small sitting area. A large green glass bottle with a wide base sat in the corner near a narrow bookcase filled with books and photo albums. Something to explore.