One Winter Weekend

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

B y the time they had finished touring the shops and returned Rachel’s purchases to the hotel, it was time to get ready for dinner. As usual, Scott was astounded by how a few simple changes could turn Rachel from a daytime tourist into an evening beauty.

She emerged from the bathroom with her hair swept back up from her face, showing off a pair of diamond earrings he had bought her for her birthday. She’d added a little makeup but not much—she didn’t need it—and swapped out her sweater for a silky, low-cut black top. She’d kept the warm black pants and boots, though, and bundled up in a thick scarf, gloves and coat.

“It’s freezing out here!” she exclaimed, as their water taxi took them to the restaurant. “I’m so glad we’re not going on a gondola tour tonight.”

“Yeah, me too,” Scott echoed, privately disappointed. Well, there’s always tomorrow…

As promised, the Rialto Bridge was aglow with lights that changed colour as festive tunes played over the water. Scott and Rachel ooh ed appreciatively at the sight and hurried into the restaurant to their table.

The waiter frowned when Scott mentioned his reservation. “We seem to have had some issues with our booking, sir,” he said, and Scott’s heart sank. “Somehow there are mixups with the seating. That table is not available this evening.”

His expression made it clear he wasn’t going to offer any further explanations or help, so Scott tried politely, “Could you find us another table then? I promised my girlfriend a romantic dinner tonight.”

The man looked irritated at this request, as though the endless romantic trials of visiting tourists were of no concern to him. However, he consulted his book and grouchily conceded that he did have an available table.

“This way,” he said, marching off briskly without a backward glance, and Scott and Rachel glanced at each other in concern. Nonetheless, Scott was determined to make the most of the night, and they hurried after the man to the table he indicated.

Scott thought that it was almost as if the guy had deliberately selected the worst table in the restaurant. Tucked into a dark corner, it offered no view of the bridge whatsoever, but a very good earful of the clamour from the kitchen.

He reached under the table and squeezed Rachel’s hand in apology. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know this would happen. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, this is fine.” She busied herself studying the menu. Scott also buried himself in the menu, and when a waiter appeared to take their order, they decided to start with a round of appetisers. This waiter also seemed a little on the surly side, but Scott decided it could just be the busy evening—the restaurant was packed—and tried to brush it off.

Wine appeared on the table in short order, and Scott and Rachel tried to strike up a conversation. It was difficult to chat quietly with the din of their fellow diners and the noise from the kitchen, and after a while, they fell silent. Some time passed before it occurred to Scott that their appetisers had yet to appear. He finally caught the attention of their waiter and inquired about their order, only to be met with a terse, “I’ll check” before the man disappeared without a second look.

Scott glanced at Rachel, but she was carefully studying the other diners, trying not to let on that she was disappointed. After what seemed like forever, the waiter finally returned with a plate of bread and olive oil and fried meatballs—all rather lukewarm, now, after what Scott suspected was a long period sitting on a side counter waiting to be served. They picked halfheartedly at the food and waited for their Secondi to be served.

The second round of the meal came out with decidedly more speed, but when the waiter set Rachel’s dish down in front of her, she said something haltingly in Italian. The waiter did a double-take and apologised curtly, whisking the dish away. Scott didn’t need a translation to know that whatever the man had brought was definitely not the risotto dish she’d ordered.

Next, the waiter brought out another dish, but after a couple of bites, she had to signal him back. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s just that this has cuttlefish in it, and I asked for the chicken.”

This time the waiter was duly embarrassed, and muttered several apologies as he took away her plate. In the meantime another order had arrived—polenta with porcini and sausage—and Rachel nibbled a bit at it while they waited. She urged Scott to go ahead and eat his, but he felt bad eating when she was having so many issues with her own order.

Finally, the waiter brought out fresh risotto with chicken, and Rachel dug in. By now Scott’s food was growing cold, but he ate as much of it as he could anyway. When Rachel finished eating he leaned across the table and whispered, “Do you want to order dessert?”

“No thanks!” She shook her head and glanced at the kitchen, as though expecting to see the waiter again. “No, this was terrible. Let’s just go.”

They paid and left, Rachel shivering in the cold. Scott quickly abandoned the idea of either a gondola ride or a walk; he guessed she wouldn’t enjoy either, and after their disastrous meal, he felt terrible that he hadn’t planned out better entertainment for the night.

Back at the hotel, he scrolled through Internet listings of local late-night happenings while Rachel warmed up with a hot shower. When she emerged, wrapped up in a cosy robe, he queried, “Would you want to go out again? We could catch a late-night movie, maybe, or go to one of the local bars for a drink?”

Rachel made a face as she crawled into bed. “Ugh, I don’t think so. I’m so worn out, and it’s so cold. Let’s just stay in for the rest of the night, okay?”

“Okay.” Scott closed his laptop and decided to take a quick shower to warm up, too; Rachel was right about the temperature outside. By the time he emerged ten minutes later, however, soft snores could be heard coming from Rachel’s side of the bed. Stifling a sigh of disappointment, he switched off her bedside lamp and crawled in beside her.

The ring box was still waiting in his coat pocket. Scott thought sadly of his ruined evening and wondered if the following day would provide any better chances for the proposal he wanted to make.

Come o n, Venice, he thought desperately, show me a little romantic magic before we go home.