The Chapel Read Online Free

courts. This was not my first missed flight. Mitchell’s itinerary for the Italian adventure had anticipated a Thursday departure from Boston. But when Thursday afternoon arrived, and the taxi Rachel had arranged beeped from the curb, I gave the cabbie twenty dollars to get lost. When I called Rachel to tell her the trip was off, she offered to find me a therapist who specialized in agoraphobia, and by midnight she had a confirmation of my reservation on Air France for Friday evening from Susie’s friend at the online travel site, who had ticketed all of my international flights, and Rachel had also persuaded EurWay Travel to send a driver to meet me at Marco Polo Airport in Venice on Saturday afternoon. And now I’d missed my connecting flight. “Listen, Sam. Nobody has to do anything.” I’d been saying so for months.
    â€œOkay, okay. But just so you know—you are booked on a midday flight to Venice tomorrow,” Sam said. “Susie was going to text you the details.” The little volleyball players were chanting, Our turn, Our turn, Our turn. “You don’t have to go, Mom.”
    My cell phone binged with a new email from Rachel. “You have to go, Sam. And god knows I have to go somewhere they’re serving coffee. I hope your girls win. Give Susie my love. And a million apologies.”
    â€œLove you, Mom, wherever you are.” Sam clicked off.
    I rolled all the way back to that first crêperie, pointed to two dinner crepes on the illustrated menu, and accidentally ordered deux cafés au lait when I begged the waiter for some coffee— du café. I was halfway through the second cup before I felt up to reading Rachel’s message.
    Dear, dear, dear mother of mine—
    Six things.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1.    Your reservation number at the Novotel hotel for tonight is 9WX877YUSA. The hotel is a three-minute walk from Terminal 3. You are in Terminal 2.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  2.    Your flight to Venice leaves tomorrow (Sunday) at 12:35 PM from Terminal 2. Susie’s text has your boarding pass and gate info.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3.    The same driver (Pietro) will be at Marco Polo (again) tomorrow with your name on a sign. Don’t stand him up again. And don’t tip him—he’s made a fortune off you already.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  4.    The driver will take you to the train station, where the smaller group going to Padua will pick you up in the tour bus. (The driver is prepared to escort you to the bus. I’ve licensed him to be firm—up to and including handcuffs.)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  5.    You haven’t missed much. Daddy had never thought of your initial stay as anything but recuperation from jet lag, which is why you have three full days in Venice at the end of the month.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  6.    Don’t call me until you are in Padua so we don’t say what we’ll only wish we hadn’t said.
    Everything went according to Rachel’s revised agenda until my Venetian driver pulled into the train station almost half an hour beforethe tour bus was due. “We are too early,” he said, “and giving thanks to me for this favor.” Pietro stepped swiftly around his car, opened the back door, and offered me his hand.
    â€œI better just wait right here,” I said.
    Pietro took this as a rebuke, dropping his gaze to the pavement. His disappointment was exaggerated by his three-piece suit. He was old enough and bald enough to be an appropriate suitor. “This bus you must take is nowhere. Always, is always molto tardi. I promise you. Tardissimo .”
    â€œI really don’t speak a word of Italian.”
    â€œMe neither,” he said, pulling me out of the car.
    â€œMy bag,” I said, as if having that in my grip would assure me of safe passage.
    Pietro obligingly dragged my canvas wheelie out of the trunk