Page 9 of Casanova LLC

“No, I’ll?—”

She came off the wall, and I lifted a hand. “I know the way.”

I got caught in her stare. There was so much going on there.

I knew how to read women. That was my thing. My training. My life. But somehow this felt different. I didn’t know why, but it did. I figured she’d had enough for now, so I said, “Breathe. Sleep.” Never bad advice. I jerked my head at the building, at her home being torn down around her. “You’ll get through this. It’ll be fine. I’ll make it all fine.”

At that, her eyes went moist and I wondered why I had done this? I could’ve pulled someone off the waitlist who just wanted Fifty Shades Lite for a weekend in exchange for a year’s worth of taxes on the palazzo. Why had I chosen a destitute widow, with more baggage than a cruise ship, and nothing to give me but my own goddamn paintings?

Scratch that. I knew why.

“And eat. You’re down, what? Twenty pounds?”

Her mouth opened again. “Eighteen. How did you?—”

“You’ll need stamina.” Her hollow cheeks flushed again and I turned to leave. “I’ll email you the preference sheet.”

I was through the French doors and crossing the loft when I heard, “Preference sheet?”

* * *

As soon as I left Claire’s apartment, my phone chimed. It was my uncle, and for a fleeting moment I was sure he somehow knew what I’d just done. While irrational, I still opened his text message as if it might bite. But no. He just wanted my flight information so he could pick me up at the airport in two days. I sent it and walked back to my sister’s place in Hudson Yards, where I began the process of packing up after two months in New York. I retrieved my nephew from kindergarten, took him to the Met and then for ice cream, enjoyed my brother-in-law’s famous pot roast, helped put my toddler niece to bed, rubbed Livia’s pregnancy-feet, went to the bar to meet with a few returning guests of mine and, finally, turned in for the night. I checked my phone one final time before plugging it in and saw a text from Claire.

Where should I stay in Venice?

It was after midnight, but I replied anyway. She could wake up to it. You’ll stay with me, but you will have your own quarters within the palazzo. All our interactions will happen one flight below, in the main sala and adjoining bedroom. Fly in on Thursday. Our weekend begins on Friday, ends Monday morning.

Just as I was crawling into bed another one came in and it made me smile.

What time is checkout?

Then, immediately after:

Kidding, sorry.

Then, before I could finish typing a reply:

Are you tested/safe? Then:

Please excuse my directness.

I replied: An important question. I’m tested regularly and will send you my most recent results the day before you travel. You will need to send me the same (for convenience, here is a link to providers in NYC). Additionally, please know I have had a vasectomy. Other protection is available at your discretion, and I am happy to incorporate anything you’d like to use. Also, I will attach a standard NDA. It is, in its way, another form of protection. Once signed, I will send the preference sheet.

I texted the NDA; she returned it immediately. As a final good night, I sent the preference sheet and turned my phone off.

I awoke to seven texts:

1:36 am: I don’t know how to answer most of these questions.

2:47 am: You know what, this is unnecessary. I’m happy to get your paintings back without a barter. I appreciate the gesture, but it’s fine. I’m fine.

2:48 am: No, I already said yes. So yes. Still yes.

2:56 am: Pegging? What is pegging?

3:01 am: Never mind. Googled it. No. No to that.

4:42 am: We really don’t need to do this. I’ll get your paintings back but I don’t think this is for me. It’s not you, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, it’s me. Apologies for wasting your time.

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