Chapter 1: The Romance of Venice

Mature Gentleman seeks travel companion. Requires younger cultured woman as a travel companion for a trip to Europe and beyond. NSA. Applicants will be judged on personality and culture. All expenses paid and an end of trip bonus of $10,000 per month will be offered. Apply by Email to WethersfieldR@ Wethersfieldassocs.com giving a brief apercu of yourself. Only candidates judged suitable will be contacted.

I insert the ad in the Globe Classified section to run for a period of a weekend and sit back reflecting on what I’ve just committed myself to. However, my decision is made, and I will not be turning back.

I need a change of pace. Boston has become abhorrent to me as have the people I associate with. I need a change of pace and a change of scene.

Since Marjorie passed away five years ago, I realize that my life has gone downhill. I no longer have any joie de vivre.

After Marjorie’s passing, the vultures started to gather around me. I shudder at the thought of these harpies trying to pass themselves off as twenty-year-olds when well past their sixties. They are crass and greedy. Dyed hair in colours that are ridiculously inappropriate, skin that has been lifted and tucked so often that their navel could now well be their oral orifices. The smell of Chanel overlaying an odour of decay. Most of all the inane conversation they spout trying to find out what I am planning to do with the rest of my life and the implication that they could accompany me through that journey.

Gold-diggers all, bringing their baggage from their divorces and widowhoods to my table.

I seek youth and joy. A smile that will brighten my days, someone whose eyes will permit me to see life from a different standpoint. Pretty would be a bonus but not essential. At my time of life, the hormones are not dead but the itch is not what it had been, and I could easily satisfy my needs by myself.

The replies come pouring in as a result of my posting. I fill countless wastebaskets with misspelled ungrammatical responses. They are stereotyped, and I believe some of them come from professional escorts. Some have the gall to include a link to pornographic websites featuring pictures and videos of themselves. Granted, some of those can lead me to masturbatory fantasies; however, that is not what I seek.

This morning Joan, my executive assistant brings in today’s crop. “Sir, the usual except this time there is one that seems to be several cuts above the rest.”

“Give me that one and use the rest as garbage bin liner.” Joan has been with me for years and is well aware of my plans. She would have made an ideal traveling companion; however, she has decided to take a golden parachute retirement and become a full-time grandmother.

“Mr. Wethersfield, my name is Janice Johnson. I am a single twenty-eight-year-old who is seeking to expand my horizons. I have no remarkable achievements to signal to your attention. My lifelong dream has been to travel, experience different cultures and sights. I am considered to be a good conversationalist and to have a pleasant personality and a warm smile. In truth, I am slowly withering on the vine in my present position which is as a waitress. I never expected to end up in this situation which fate has dictated to me. I would be delighted in meeting with you to advance my candidacy for this position. Please let me know if you deem me potentially appropriate at jj3742@gmail.com. I would be available at your convenience should you decide we should meet.”

A waitress! Now there’s one who is not trying to astound me with her culture and sophistication, hmm ... I wonder. “Joan, please come in,” I bellow, “Please send her an email inquiring if she would be available on Friday for supper at the Brahmin Rand at seven thirty.”

Joan raises her eyebrows at me. “Really?” she asks. “Why her?”

“She has no pretensions and makes no spelling mistakes. For that alone she deserves a chance. I also love the thought of showing the world and its treasures and beauty to someone who is not going to try and dazzle me with bullshit.”

“Ah! The fact that she is twenty-eight and single has nothing to do with it, you dirty old man.”

“Joan, you disappoint me. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Robert, over the years I have seen you ogle my legs, ass, and bosom. I am infinitely grateful that it was done discreetly. It helped me to keep to my marriage vows. Now a young woman nearly half your age ... that might be harder to resist than this scrawny quintagenarian.”

“Now Joan, you mean that if I hadn’t been discreet, I might have tumbled you? Damn the lost opportunities. Get out of here and send that email before I change my mind and ravish you on the spot. Oh! Please include our phone number this time and sign your name to it.”

“Right away, boss.”

Later that afternoon Joan comes into my office and confirms what she facetiously terms ‘our date.’

The die is cast, I think to myself.

Perfectly timed with my emergence from the subway stairs, a skyscraper-funneled gale shrieks down State Street. As one hand keeps my purse and billowing skirt in check, I fight a path through the headwind and pedestrians, avoiding the grate’s lecherous exhale and a potential Seven-Year-Itch moment before a posse of Brooks Brothers neckties.

Unfortunately, the detour causes another awkward moment. A tall, thin man dressed more like a lumberjack than Gordon Gekko grabs my free hand and shakes it in his own. Startled, I stare up into a rusty beard and its friendly, color-coordinated grin.

“Hi, I just want to say you’re much too beautiful to be spending the evening alone,” the lumberjack booms.

My jaw hardens. This man has no idea who he’s dealing with. Two weeks ago, I stood up to Married Asshole Jake. I can handle a random street masher.

“I’m meeting someone,” I reply as pleasantly as possible, hoping he’ll let go.

It works. The man releases my hand and shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, it was worth a try. Enjoy.”

I double-time my stride. It’s true; I am meeting someone and thanks to all the Green Line slowdowns I’m also running late. Mr. Wethersfield had offered a car and driver to collect me, but I insisted on making my own way into Boston even though I barely have the T fare, let alone next month’s share of the rent, which I’d rather not think about right now.

Stubborn. Proud. And broke. Yep. Me, in a nutshell.

Out of breath, I struggle to compose myself in front of the smoked-glass facade of my destination: The Brahmin Rand, an upscale bar popular with the financial district crowd. Perhaps Mr. Wethersfield works nearby, and this is where he dines. It’s an agreeable first meeting place for both of us.

I’m jostled by another passing horde and my hand shields the flap of my flea-market purse. In it, I’ve tucked the torn-out advert spotted while browsing an abandoned Globe Classified section on the train last week.

At first, I’d dismissed it as too good to be true. But what if it was real? An opportunity to travel the world, all expenses paid as a companion to an older gentleman? Who in my situation—single, no nearby family and no commitments other than an ill-paying job—wouldn’t jump at the chance? And what did I stand to lose by merely inquiring?

A trio of power suits files out the Brahmin’s ornately carved door. I take the opportunity to slip inside, eyes adjusting to the dim but lavishly appointed lobby, feeling like a gray-market Barbie plopped into Bendel’s window. As discreetly as possible, I scan for a restroom. My hair must be a windblown wreck.

From behind his solid oak podium, an impeccably coifed host rakes me up and down with an imperious glance that accurately tries and convicts my only good dress for the felony of coming off a thrift-store rack.

“May I help you?” The frozen, Beacon Hill nasality implies anything but helpfulness.

I invoke Married Asshole Jake, square my shoulders and adopt the host’s patrician tone. “You may. I believe Mr. Wethersfield is expecting me.”

Whoever this Mr. Wethersfield is, he must be one hell of a tipper because Mr. Couture Judge’s mask softens to a genuine smile as he nods and utters, “Right this way, please.”

Trailing in the wake of Eau 4711, I also breathe in the subdued elegance of the decor and clientele alike: the glint of real silverware soundlessly transporting culinary delicacies from porcelain to palate, the string-quartet resonance of half-filled Waterford vessels, the hush of polite conversation accented with Rolexed gestures.

It’s an entirely different world from the hellhole pub in which I’ve toiled the five-to-midnight shift for three years. I knew its grease pit of a menu in my sleep. Through constant evasion of its horny patrons’ pinches and gropes, I’d developed reflexes to rival those of a Red Sox shortstop. It was there I first met Married Asshole Jake ... and where I’d finally finished with him.

“Miss Johnson?” a gentle voice serenades. “Are you all right?”

I snap to attention. The Couture Judge has retreated to his podium, and a kind-faced, expensively dressed man in his late fifties has risen from the table and pulled out a chair for me.

“I’m so sorry,” I blubber. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wethersfield.”

He takes my hand to kiss it, Old World-style. I suddenly remember the lumberjack and yank it back.

“Before you do that,” I murmur apologetically, “I’d like to wash my hands ... the subway ... you know...”

The smile broadens. “Behind you, first door on the left.”

A fresh-cut floral arrangement in the center of the vanity exudes the minty scent of stargazer lilies. The soap dispenser is brass, not plastic; its luxurious contents lather richly and rinse promptly. Holy cow—they even soften the water, and there are vintage hot-and-cold taps instead of those cheap-ass infrared sensors. I’m agog at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and embroidered divan with matching armchairs.

I realize I’m hoping Mr. Wethersfield will like what he sees, and earnestly set about to comb, blot and fluff the disheveled reflection into a semblance of neatness. My future could very well depend on it.

I watch as she glides towards the ladies with a delightful sway of her derriere and smile to myself. Joan was right; I will have to watch myself. Very appealing I think, and that her smile would undoubtedly brighten my days.

She returns and with a mischievous glint in her eye offers me her hand to be kissed. I lightly appose my lips to her soft flesh as she says, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wethersfield.”

“As am I, Miss Johnson. However, if we are going to communicate further, you will have to call me Robert. Robert, please, not Bob. Bob always makes me think of either a woman’s hairdo or what you attach to a fishing line.”

“Well, Robert, we have a deal as long as you call me Janice or Jan.”

“Certainly. Please sit, Jan.”

I really don’t know how to start this conversation, I think to myself. Hundreds of job interviews over the years and here I am, tongue-tied like a high school freshman trying to get a first date.

Fortunately, I am saved by the sommelier asking if we would like to start with a drink.

“Janice, what would you like to have as an aperitif?”

“Robert, I seldom drink. Why don’t you order for us?”

“Charles, why don’t you bring us a bottle of Prosecco frizzante demi-sec, while we study the menu.”

“Now what is that you just ordered?” she asks as she smiles at me.

“It’s a sparkling white wine from the Venetian region of Italy. It’s semi-sweet and a little bit fizzy. It makes for an excellent aperitif and can accompany appetizers and fish to perfection.”

I am enchanted that she has no complexes about her lack of knowledge. It is refreshing to me.

“Why don’t we look at the menu and decide what we’ll have?”

I watch as she studies the menu. A smile forms on her face and I ask, “What’s funny?”

“I guess they don’t serve burgers here.”

“No, the closest you can get to burgers is steak tartare, raw filet mignon which is usually served with onions, capers, pepper and Worcestershire sauce, and other seasonings.”

“Well, Robert, that is certainly a far cry from what’s served at Big Knockers Burgers.”

“Big Knockers Burgers?”

“It’s where I used to work as a waitress.”

My gaze falls to her chest. Her cleavage is indeed not small but falls short of the appellation ‘Big Knockers.’ I don’t think that breastworks resembling Daisy, the Cow are particularly attractive so I am relieved. Again that charming candor and lack of pretension on her part seduce me.

“Robert, why don’t you choose for both of us? I defer to your expertise. I am omnivorous, so anything that is not raw.”

“Fine! What would you say for starters we order some pate de foie gras with truffles followed by filet mignon with baked potato and a Caesar salad.”

“Sounds right up my alley. I’ve always wanted to try pate but never had the means nor the occasion.”

“How do you like your meat grilled?”

“Medium, please.”

Placing the order, I come back to thinking, how do I start? She is certainly attractive and is not abashed by being in an unfamiliar environment. She comes to my rescue by opening up the conversation.

“Robert, tell me more about this assignment I am being considered for?”

“The short version, Jan, is that I have retired and I am looking to travel the world for a few months before deciding what I will do when I grow up. I am looking for a woman to accompany me as a companion who will enjoy my company and who would love the opportunity to experience new vistas.

“I am thinking that I will start by going to Venice then visiting Greece. Doing that alone seems to be a sin so if I can share this with a friend it would be much more pleasant.”

“Excuse me; I don’t want to seem as if I am prying, but you are wearing a wedding ring so what about your wife?”

“I’m a widower, Jan. Marjorie passed away five years ago. We had planned to do this together, but somehow we ran out of time. In essence, I am looking for someone who will take her place and who reminds me of her. Of course, without the physical side of the relationship.”

“Oh, Robert, I am so sorry for your loss.”

The food is served, and I keep looking for flaws. Does she know how to handle the silverware, does she pick her teeth, does she chew with her mouth open, etc...?

“Jan, tell me more about yourself. How did you end up as a waitress? Please, there is no shame to any gainful employment. However, it does seem to me that you have much more potential than that.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I do, Robert. I might be a waitress, but I am the best waitress I can be. My parents were exceptional in that they doted on me and gave me all the opportunities within their means. My father was a concert musician, and my mother was an artist and author. They were fun and loving, but not well-to-do. We had a good life, and after high school, I went to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts University on a scholarship.

“The first-year review of my work was well received both by my peers as well as my teachers. To help ends meet I worked part-time and during the summer as a waitress. Two months into my second year, my parents died in a car accident. I was heartbroken. My father had not left a will, and though I was the sole beneficiary when the assets were tallied for probate, I discovered that all that was left after all debts were paid was a few thousand dollars. I had to drop out of school, and my skill set was sufficient to get a job as a waitress but little else. I still paint and sell an occasional piece.”

“I see that we all have our tsuris.”

“Tsuris? What’s that?”

“Our woes in life. Tell me, how come a lovely woman like you is unattached?”

“Confession time,” she says with a wistful smile. “Robert, I am not proud of this, but I was involved with a married man for the past years. He swore he would leave his wife and we would get married. He finally revealed his true colors: not only was he not leaving his wife but he had a third woman on the side.”

“My God, you certainly have not had it easy,” I take her hand in mine.

“All that is in the past. I am now only looking forward.”

“Looking forward, would you accept to accompany me on my peregrinations?”

“Robert, are you offering me the position?”

“Yes.”

I see that she is almost in shock. She is white as a ghost and tears are streaming down her face.

“Really, Robert? Cross your heart?”

“Really, Jan.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Might I suggest, ‘I’d be delighted to accept, thank you.’”

“Oh, Robert, I must look a mess with these tears. Let me go freshen up.”

I stand as she returns, but instead of sitting down she takes me in her arms and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Just a chaste demure peck of her lips. My heart melts, and I hold her against me for an instant.

“Sit down, Jan. Now that you have accepted let me tell you my plan. I want to leave by next weekend. In the meantime I want you to get outfitted suitably for the trip. You will need to have both casual wear and more dressy attire as well as all that a woman needs to travel. I realize that you probably can’t afford that so tomorrow you will come to my office and I will send you out with my PA, Joan to do what you need to do. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You would do that for me?”

“Yes, Jan, I would. Understand that I am obscenely well-to-do. I had planned to do this with my wife. I want you to feel comfortable accompanying me and not feel that you are the poor relative tagging along.”

Poor Joan. She has her hands full getting this wardrobe-challenged Cinderella organized on such short notice. At Robert’s insistence, there are excursions to Newbury Street’s poshest salons. An esthetician’s herb-scented implements buff years of neglect from my complexion while a manicurist coddles shredded cuticles into sleek French tips. Unruly locks are shaped and bestowed with subtle highlights.

In between fittings at the venerable Cabot-Blenheim, I pepper the patient Joan with questions about my would-be travel companion’s likes and dislikes. I’m determined to make up for that gaffe at the Brahmin when I cross-examined Robert on his wedding ring. Had the sordid experience with Jake left me so uncouth? I felt like crawling under the Delorme tablecloth.

Robert’s wife must have been exceptional for his finger to retain her tribute after five years. I pinch the bridge of my nose to ward off sudden tears as another new outfit is draped into place.

“Please deliver these to the Adams Suite at the Copley,” Joan briskly instructs the senior sales associate, pointing to a glimmering array of evening dresses and an assortment of casual separates in Impressionist hues. “And Miss Johnson will wear the Tasha Strutt ensemble.”

The mauve-and-jade-dappled silk shell is high-necked with an open back, and its matching skirt swirls six inches above the knee. A gleaming pair of Gucci slingbacks makes the waitressing-toned legs look even longer. The stylist adds platinum pearl earrings and bracelets. I shudder at what they must cost, let alone the whole outfit.

With deft strokes, makeup artist Cora shades my lids, cheeks, and lips, then spins me around to face the mirror.

I scarcely recognize the reflection. Gone is gray-market Barbie. In her place shines ... a chestnut-tressed, high-fashion Shakira. She’s a confident woman who will accompany an eminent man like Robert with style through Boston, Venice, Athens ... anywhere in the world.

“Come now, Janice; we have two more stops to make.”

“What more do I need, Joan?” I plead with a tinge of worry. I am starting to feel guilty about what seems to be a gazillion dollars that we have spent so far.

We grab a cab and shoot over to the North End and finally stop in front of Injeanius.

“You aren’t going to spend your time dressed like a fashion plate and tramp around town in your Louboutins or Jimmy Choos. You will need jeans and shorts as well as some t-shirts and casual tops and a couple of bathing suits. Knowing Robert, preferably bikinis.”

I blush at the thought. “Joan, can I bring up something with you?”

“Sure, what would you like to know?”

“Joan, I’m no virgin; however, neither am I a whore. Will Robert have any sexual expectations of me after dishing out all this money?”

“Oh dear. Come, let’s sit down in that café across the street and have an espresso.”

Once the waiter brings our order of two espressos—another first for me—Joan leans forward and speaks in a confidential tone.

“Jan, I have worked for Robert since right after high school. Once I started, I really had the hots for him. Never once in all these years has Robert made the slightest inappropriate gesture towards me. Yes, he has ogled from time to time as I still, to this day as you can see, am rather well-endowed and I keep fit, so my legs, belly, and ass are still relatively attractive for a woman my age.”

“Joan, what do you mean ‘your age’? You can’t be older than in your mid to late thirties?”

“Bless you, my sweet girl. My daughter is in her thirties, and I have three grandchildren.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Really?”

“Yes, really. But back to Robert, Jan. He will never make an advance nor raise a finger on you. He is a consummate gentleman, and if something should happen between you, it will be of your doing. I realized when you were trying on your outfits earlier why Robert offered you the position.”

“Why?”

“He couldn’t help it. You could have been the younger twin of his wife. Same smile, looks, and effervescent personality. I am sure he would like something to happen between you and him, but as I said, if it does it will be your doing.”

My heart wells up in my throat, and I feel ... almost giddy.

“Come now, let’s finish up,” Joan directs, saving me further embarrassment.

Three pairs of jeans, all of which look as if they’ve been tailored to my figure, along with sundry tops and sneakers later, we’re out and back into another hack.

“Where to now?” I ask. Surely we’ve covered everything?

“Rigby and Peller, Jan.”

“Oh wow,” I gasp at the extravagance. “But I have my own bra and panty sets. I don’t need to have that kind of money spent on what only I will see.”

“Trust Grandma Joan,” she assures. “Sexy and pretty lingerie makes you feel sexy and pretty. And ... you never know who might get a peek at it,” she giggles.

There is much to be said for the difference between cotton briefs and silk panties. Lace and silk on a bra change it from an under-the-shoulder boulder-holder into a serving dish for your tits which you are eager to present for a lover’s delectation.

We are finally back at the hotel where I will be spending the night. Joan helps me pack all the goodies into two leather suitcases before giving me a huge hug and wishing me luck.

After a long shower, I snuggle into bed with a Guide to Venice.

Logan is a madhouse. But then when is it not? I scan the crowd looking for Jan, don’t see her and go to the Air France lounge of which I am a member. We are supposed to meet here at the Lounge in terminal E. I am as nervous as a freshman waiting for his date to arrive and each time the doors open I look with anticipation expecting it to be Jan.

The door swings open and I note a striking woman enter and my mind puts her aside and returns to my novel when something clicks. I look again, and she is standing at the reception desk. My jaw drops and I do a double take. It’s Jan, but a Jan who has been transformed.

I rush to the reception desk and tell the snooty woman with whom Jan has been conversing that Jan is with me. “Jan, you look stunning. Come, let’s have a seat; we will be paged when our flight is ready. You had no problems with checking in and going through security? I had reserved your boarding pass so we would be sitting together.” I am blathering; my tongue seems to have been dislocated from my mind.

“Robert, catch your breath. Everything went fine and now relax.”

“I can’t believe how great you look,” I enthuse, scanning her from head to foot. She is wearing skinny jeans which mold her legs and derriere to perfection with a pair of black loafers and a zip leather jacket over a white button-down blouse. Her auburn curls cascade over her shoulders, and if she is wearing makeup, it is not noticeable except for a faint sheen on her lips.

She blushes, and a frown appears. “Robert, I feel like a fraud. Never in my life have I been able to dress like this. I feel like a creation of Pygmalion. Your very able Joan/Pygmalion created this look. Look at the woman standing over there. You can see that she was born that way, I was not.”

I take her hand. “Jan, that woman was born the same way you were—naked and screeching. Let me tell you a little secret about her. Before she married Sam, she was a masseuse at the Copley Plaza. She is a delightful person and what you have to remember is that she was a delightful person before her marriage or Sam would not have married her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. That’s our call I just heard. Let’s saunter over to Air Italia and get on our way.”

I take Jan’s arm, and we walk over to the gate. I feel her presence deep in my gut. I think I have made the perfect choice of a travel companion.

She pauses to look around in wonder. “Robert, this is First Class! I was dreading the flight as the last time I flew I was in economy and squeezed between a bratty kid on one side and a man who smelled foul on the other. Here, there are just the two of us. AND you do smell wonderful. What are you wearing?”

“It’s Creed Virgin Island Water Cologne. My wife fell in love with it when we were in the Caribbean, bought me my first bottle, and I have worn it ever since. Now would you like a glass of champagne to celebrate our departure?”

“Thank you, but just a glass of white wine will do. After the Prosecco you introduced me to at supper the other night, I don’t think I will ever drink champagne again.”

Settling into Air Italia first-class—Robert chivalrously insists I take the window seat—I watch with amusement as a shapely blonde hostess dances attendance on us. Well, on Robert, really. Her scarlet talons tarry a little too long when she ‘helps’ him with the seat belt, and feline flashes of agate eyes communicate her availability for a great deal more than a blanket and a beverage. My seatmate is courteous and appreciative, nothing more. Joan is right; he is a consummate gentleman.

The mechanical whine inside the cabin is joined by a deep rumble as the turbines fire and accelerate us along the runway. My heart is racing equally hard. I stare excitedly out the window at picket fences of runway lamps and East Boston tenements ghosted with halogen streetlights. Landing gear chatters over tarmac; the 747 gains momentum, full-speed toward the Atlantic.

Involuntarily I reach for Robert’s hand. It folds mine and patiently tolerates its squeeze of anxiety.

With a sudden upward thrust, all is smooth again. Tears of euphoria sting the corners of my eyes as we’re airborne and the midnight harbor lurches into view. The glare of its industrial collar becomes more like rhinestones on black velvet with each gain in altitude before disappearing behind us for good. The next waterfront we’ll see will be a much older, far different one.

I relax my grip but don’t let go until the blonde hostess returns with our glasses.

Twelve and a half hours later, a water taxi ferries us through a world I’ve only seen in pictures which haven’t done it justice. The Queen of the Adriatic, crowned with sunset’s rubicund diadem, flaunts the last gold of her daylight robes. My head whips from side to side like a weather vane in a nor’easter as we glide between the Venetian Gothic facades lining the Grand Canal.

“It’s like the Gardner Museum multiplied by a million!” I blurt like a schoolgirl on a field trip. “Complete with real gondolas. But the drivers aren’t singing.”

“According to local ordinance, they can’t sing after 5:00 pm,” Robert deadpans.

“You’re making that up!”

“You’re right. The tourists haven’t tipped them enough.”

My giggle blooms to a laugh. In his casual travel clothes, Robert looks younger, more relaxed. It’s not just the light of Venice; I noticed it back in the Air France lounge when he rescued me from the snooty receptionist.

“There it is, Janice ... on the left.” He points to a brick building from which several different flags fly. Compared to the splendor of the Santa Maria basilica rising across the canal, it appears almost plain at first.

“The Palazzo Pisani Gritti. This is where the Doge of Venice lived in the 16th century. It was turned into a hotel over a hundred years ago. Don’t be fooled by the exterior,” Robert adds. “Wait till you see the rest.”

“Oh, the arched windows are gorgeous. Imagine standing out on one of those balconies in the evening, with that view.” I gesture toward the basilica.