Page 11 of His Two Hidden Masks

“You are?” He pointed to the sign overhead. It was for a shop called Serendipity. “Well, isn’t that serendipity.”

It was a joke, but it struck a chord deep inside me. I had believed in serendipity once upon a time myself. “I’ll show you the way.”

“You are a goddess,” he said. He cocked his head to the side and grinned. He reminded me of a wolf, a- hot-as-fuck wolf. I wondered what it would be like to feel his arrogant mouth against my lips, on my nipples, down my belly, buried between my legs.

“Follow me,” I said, clearing my throat to cover for my raging hormones. I pointed over his shoulder. “It’s that way.” He nodded and walked in lock-step beside me.

“Is it far?” he asked, glancing down at me. We turned right.

“Very,” I whispered, giving him a smile. I was enjoying this. We turned left.

“Really?” He looked annoyed. “I thought I was so close.”

“You were.” I couldn’t help but laugh as the narrow walkway opened up into San Marco Square.

We stood in the corner of the piazza, facing St. Mark’s Basilica and the bell tower. Lights illuminated the colonnades that covered the sides of the square and the entrances to high-priced cafes where tourists flocked during the day. The waters of the lagoon rose and flooded this space at least twice a year.

“Fuck, it’s beautiful,” he said, standing beside me.

The square was almost empty. Clusters of cafe tables that normally spilled out across the cobblestones were nestled behind ropes for the night.

In the center of the square, a violinist played beside his amplifier, filling the air with slow languid notes. A handful of people walked arm-in-arm, lovers and tourists who knew that the true magic of Venice sparked when the sun went down.

“I see why you like it here at night,” he said, turning in a circle, his arms wide as if he were bathing in the open air. “I could disappear here.”

“You like disappearing?” I asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He smiled at me, his face gorgeous in the moonlight.

“Sometimes,” I said, remembering the horrible days after the wedding when I couldn’t go anywhere without hearing whispers. I had wanted to vanish, but I hid in my bedroom and kitchen for six months instead.

“Is that why you haven’t asked my name?” I asked. “Anonymity?”

“Is that why you haven’t asked me mine?”

We faced each other and something shifted in the air between us. It was as if an invisible string now connected us, and if one of us strummed it, we would both feel the vibration.

“I understand wanting to stay anonymous,” I said, not breaking eye contact.

“As do I. I suppose we could do first names. I’m James,” he said and held out his hand.

“Ciao, James,” I said. “I’m Isabella. Bella, for short.”

“And Bella means, beautiful. How fitting.”

“And you have mastered Italian.”

“I just like to acknowledge real beauty when I see it,” he said, unfurling his hand with dramatic flair. “Thank you, Bella, for escorting me to this gorgeous piazza.”

“My pleasure.” I did a mock curtsy.

“It’s late,” he said, “but would you consider walking with me a bit longer? Perhaps I can find another ornery barista.”

“No hope. All the cafes are closed.”

He sighed and glanced up and down the square. “You know, this never happens in New York.”

“I have an idea.” I motioned for James to follow as I walked toward Cafe Florian.

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