Harold spoke up this time, clearing his throat, "Her name is Beatrice, my over-zealous wife of 25 years-as of tomorrow that is. I do apologize Mr. Kincaid, I have been attempting to control my wife's enthusiasm for that same length of time and have yet to determine exactly how one controls emotion that rivales the swell of a tsunami." Samson extended his hand to Harold and then to Beatrice and then graciously autographed the book. Harold lined up the camera to take a photo of his wife and Samson.
Samson seized the opportunity to once again speak to the nameless coquette, "Excuse me, miss, would you mind terribly to take a photo of the three of us together?" Eyeing him, she reached for the camera without giving a verbal response. As she was returning the camera to Harold, Samson pulled out Ginevra's Tour cards for the second time that day and gave one to the couple. "The best tour is in just a couple of hours. Even though this has been a traditional vacation for me the last eight years, I make a point to go on that particular tour to reacquaint myself with the city every year. I'd be honored if you'd be my guests today. Consider it my anniversary present to my biggest fan." Beatrice swooned as Harold accepted the card as well as the invitation. Glancing over Beatrice's shoulder, Samson was disappointed to see the woman who had captured his interest reading a small book instead of paying attention to him.
After chatting with the couple, all the while keeping Blue Suit in his peripheral vision, Samson realized they were coming to the last stop on the red line, in the Zattre district, quite a jaunt from his hotel on Cannaregio. Taking what he prayed would not be his last chance to speak to her, he said, "Miss beautiful-lady-in-the-sapphire-suit, should I not have the pleasure of seeing you again, I pray you have a beautiful stay in Venice and that you not don a Carnival mask thereby denying the world the experience of your beauty. However, I would be forever in regret if I didn't once again ask for your name."
Blushing, she smiled and replied, "Mr. Kincaid, I trust that I am not the only woman to have heard those words from you. Might I suggest that you find something more useful to pray for? Thank you again for the card. Have a wonderful vacation in Venice." Beatrice, having witnessed the exchange, poked Harold so hard in the stomach he doubled over, clutching his side in pain.
Not wanting give the appearance of a stalker, Samson decided to walk away, even knowing he would have to circle back around to that exact spot in order to catch a water taxi to his hotel.
(((Note to anyone reading: Would you like bigger chunks of the story each time, or is this a good amount to post?)))
Samson (Chapter One, Part Five)
"Oh, I am so sorry about that. That's not what I meant to give you." Was he blushing? Samson could feel his face growing warm as he practically ripped the tract out of the shocked woman's hand, replacing it with Gina's card. "This is the tour leaving in three hours. I'm not sure where you're staying...well, I hope you're staying in Venice anyway, but as I've said, I've been here many times and Ginevra knows her city. I don't get a commission or anything, I just want to make sure she stays in business. I mean, I'm not involved with her in any way, she's just a very good tour guide." The words seemed to be spewing out of his mouth like water out of Old Faithful. The last time he remembered this sensation was in high school when he asked Connie Phelps to the prom.
Willing himself to take a breath and slow down, he said, "My name is Samson Kincaid. Maybe you've heard of me? I'm a New York Times Best Seller? Hard-Cover Fiction. Actually I've been on the list several times." Samson continued to blather on about his various accomplishments and awards and failed to notice the girl of his dreams politely easing away. Not allowing her to escape, he extended his hand, "Forgive me, I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't throw it. Have a wonderful stay in Venice, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you for the bit of advice, and for the card." With that, a customs agent summoned her out of the conversation as Samson was beckoned by one on the opposite side of the room.
After quickly answering the official's questions, Samson hurried outside to catch the shuttle to the dock, where the rides to "The City of Bridges" awaited. Seeing the sapphire-suited beauty boarding the Agilaguna Line water bus, he decided not partake of his usual water taxi splurge and opted instead to join her, even without knowing which route this particular water bus would take. What he did know was that it would give him another chance to at least, hopefully, learn her name.
As the waterbus pulled away from the dock, every tourist-looking person with a suitcase had pulled out a map of Venice, except her. Unlike Manhattan, where the streets are in a grid pattern and logically named, Venice is a collection of winding pathways and approximately 400 bridges connecting 18 small islands. Priding himself in knowing the city well enough to give directions, something even locals struggled with, Samson confidently walked up to an older, obviously-American, couple who appeared to be having difficultly with their map. He introduced himself, asking if he could be of assistance.
Immediately the woman said to to the embarrassed looking man, "Harold, I told you it was HIM!" Then to Samson, "Mr. Kincaid, it is a pleasure to meet you. I've been an avid fan of yours since your first book Duality. I told Harold here I was certain that was you the moment we boarded the water bus. I have Four Hours with me; I haven't been able to put it down since Steve got the phone call from Renee that Sarah had been in the car accident. Oh! Would you mind terribly to give me your autograph and allow me to have a photo with you?"
Harold was obviously mortified but Samson couldn't have been more pleased, positive the object of his attention had not only seen this exchange, but was also well within earshot. "I couldn't be more pleased madame." Speaking a little more loudly than necessary to make sure Blue Suit could hear the comment directed to his smiling fan, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, dear."
Willing himself to take a breath and slow down, he said, "My name is Samson Kincaid. Maybe you've heard of me? I'm a New York Times Best Seller? Hard-Cover Fiction. Actually I've been on the list several times." Samson continued to blather on about his various accomplishments and awards and failed to notice the girl of his dreams politely easing away. Not allowing her to escape, he extended his hand, "Forgive me, I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't throw it. Have a wonderful stay in Venice, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you for the bit of advice, and for the card." With that, a customs agent summoned her out of the conversation as Samson was beckoned by one on the opposite side of the room.
After quickly answering the official's questions, Samson hurried outside to catch the shuttle to the dock, where the rides to "The City of Bridges" awaited. Seeing the sapphire-suited beauty boarding the Agilaguna Line water bus, he decided not partake of his usual water taxi splurge and opted instead to join her, even without knowing which route this particular water bus would take. What he did know was that it would give him another chance to at least, hopefully, learn her name.
As the waterbus pulled away from the dock, every tourist-looking person with a suitcase had pulled out a map of Venice, except her. Unlike Manhattan, where the streets are in a grid pattern and logically named, Venice is a collection of winding pathways and approximately 400 bridges connecting 18 small islands. Priding himself in knowing the city well enough to give directions, something even locals struggled with, Samson confidently walked up to an older, obviously-American, couple who appeared to be having difficultly with their map. He introduced himself, asking if he could be of assistance.
Immediately the woman said to to the embarrassed looking man, "Harold, I told you it was HIM!" Then to Samson, "Mr. Kincaid, it is a pleasure to meet you. I've been an avid fan of yours since your first book Duality. I told Harold here I was certain that was you the moment we boarded the water bus. I have Four Hours with me; I haven't been able to put it down since Steve got the phone call from Renee that Sarah had been in the car accident. Oh! Would you mind terribly to give me your autograph and allow me to have a photo with you?"
Harold was obviously mortified but Samson couldn't have been more pleased, positive the object of his attention had not only seen this exchange, but was also well within earshot. "I couldn't be more pleased madame." Speaking a little more loudly than necessary to make sure Blue Suit could hear the comment directed to his smiling fan, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, dear."
Samson (Chapter One, Part Four)
As the travelers made their way to customs, Samson made his way alongside the beautiful woman. Usually after watching a woman several minutes, Samson had a pretty good feel for her and for what tactics would work best to woe her off her feet, but strangely, this one perplexed him. What he did know was he wanted to see her again, a want that felt very much like a need. Crossing his fingers in hope, Samson asked, "So, are you headed to the islands?" Looking startled, she replied a little too quickly, "Forgive me for sounding rude, but I don't think it would be appropriate, or safe, to disclose my travel plans with a complete stranger."
Unfazed, he replied, "Well, forgive me if I sound rude, but, might I give you a piece of advice? You should do yourself a favor, and put the Fodor's Gold Guide to Venice in your suitcase instead of out where any passerby can see it. I was merely being polite by asking." Thankfully his charm appeared to say more to her than his words, as her facial expression softened, she allowed a half-smile and said, "Well, then, I guess I've already disclosed at least a portion of my travel plans, haven't I? I certainly wouldn't want to go any further."
Samson made a practice of carrying several of Gina's tour-group cards with him every year for this very reason. He had only used them once, on Blondie and her Pi Phi sorority sisters. After that, every time he touched the cards he sighed remembering Gina's words "it was the last view of the free world the convicts would see before being taken to their cells". This time, however, the thought was quickly replaced by a strong desire to have the chance to see this mysterious beauty again. She didn't fit his usual target by any means, that would have been the gorgeous long-legged blond standing in front of her in the line for customs. Not that he didn't consider his chances much better with the blond one, especially considering the wink and nod she had just given him, he just couldn't take his eyes off the one playing hard to get. There was something so magnetic about her he felt compelled to get past the "Bridge of Sighs" hex that had been on those business cards.
Fumbling through the contents of his pocket, he timidly offered her a card with the suggestion that the tour leaving in just three hours was by far the best. Although she took the card and thanked him, she stiffened again and eyed him skeptically. He guessed she probably thought it to be a scam so he quickly explained that this was an annual trek for him; out of all the tours he had been on, Gina's were the most interesting. He didn't bother to tell her Gina's tours where the only ones he'd tried, after all, he was certain they actually were the best, even without first hand knowledge of the others. The woman looked puzzled and held up the card Samson had just given her which turned out to be a Christian Tract someone had thrust in his hand at the New York airport. The bold faced caption read, "Are You Going To Hell?"
Unfazed, he replied, "Well, forgive me if I sound rude, but, might I give you a piece of advice? You should do yourself a favor, and put the Fodor's Gold Guide to Venice in your suitcase instead of out where any passerby can see it. I was merely being polite by asking." Thankfully his charm appeared to say more to her than his words, as her facial expression softened, she allowed a half-smile and said, "Well, then, I guess I've already disclosed at least a portion of my travel plans, haven't I? I certainly wouldn't want to go any further."
Samson made a practice of carrying several of Gina's tour-group cards with him every year for this very reason. He had only used them once, on Blondie and her Pi Phi sorority sisters. After that, every time he touched the cards he sighed remembering Gina's words "it was the last view of the free world the convicts would see before being taken to their cells". This time, however, the thought was quickly replaced by a strong desire to have the chance to see this mysterious beauty again. She didn't fit his usual target by any means, that would have been the gorgeous long-legged blond standing in front of her in the line for customs. Not that he didn't consider his chances much better with the blond one, especially considering the wink and nod she had just given him, he just couldn't take his eyes off the one playing hard to get. There was something so magnetic about her he felt compelled to get past the "Bridge of Sighs" hex that had been on those business cards.
Fumbling through the contents of his pocket, he timidly offered her a card with the suggestion that the tour leaving in just three hours was by far the best. Although she took the card and thanked him, she stiffened again and eyed him skeptically. He guessed she probably thought it to be a scam so he quickly explained that this was an annual trek for him; out of all the tours he had been on, Gina's were the most interesting. He didn't bother to tell her Gina's tours where the only ones he'd tried, after all, he was certain they actually were the best, even without first hand knowledge of the others. The woman looked puzzled and held up the card Samson had just given her which turned out to be a Christian Tract someone had thrust in his hand at the New York airport. The bold faced caption read, "Are You Going To Hell?"
Samson (Chapter One, Part Three)
He had been to lunch with his sister, Mackenzie, something that was as much a part of his annual Venetian escapade as the actual trip. On the way to their favorite deli, as they walked by Macy's, Mackenzie stopped to direct a confused looking gaggle of camera-clicking, tennis shoe wearing, wide-eyed, obviously-not-from-New-York gawkers, uptown to Central Park. As she explained to them "25 blocks up 6th Street" really wasn't as far as it sounded, the very suit that stood animated before him now had been the topic of discussion of a young couple in front of the window that day. The man emphatically told the woman even though he knew she didn't think she liked blue, it was his favorite color and he was going to buy the suit for her. He went on to say she was going to wear it. Samson recalled thinking that if he ever found himself in a relationship with a woman for whom he picked out clothing, he wanted it to be with someone with whom he would share a similar taste. As he watched the conversation unfold before him in front of the storefront window that day, he studied the suit and visualized long dark hair falling like silk over the shoulder of the rich sapphire linen.
It was the same long dark hair that crowned the woman standing before him now.
A seasoned traveler, Samson was certain he had never seen any woman wear linen on an international flight. He had been on the non-stop from New York; he knew she must have been on the same one since her bag was in the carousel marked "Delta flight 186", the flight he had taken. As Samson mentally ran through the faces of everyone he noticed at the departure gate, and on the plane, an olive skinned Italian man rushed to free the woman's bag from the conveyor belt that had been holding it hostage.
She thanked him in what sounded like flawless Italian. In all his years of coming to Venice, Samson had only picked up a few words here and there, but he knew enough to understand that she was telling this man she could handle her bag from here. Not letting go of it, the man continued with his questions, most likely asking where she came from and where she was going. Samson didn't understand anything she was saying, but the look on both of their faces told him she was politely turning the man's advances down. A feeling of relief moved over him like sunshine. Samson knew all too well this man wasn't interested in getting to know the dark haired woman in the sapphire pant suit that had suddenly captured his own attention. He felt as if he had been watching a hunter shoot an arrow and miss a majestic wild animal. A hunter himself, Samson believed envy must be the reason he had been holding his breath and he exhaled when the man finally moved on to another target.
It was the same long dark hair that crowned the woman standing before him now.
A seasoned traveler, Samson was certain he had never seen any woman wear linen on an international flight. He had been on the non-stop from New York; he knew she must have been on the same one since her bag was in the carousel marked "Delta flight 186", the flight he had taken. As Samson mentally ran through the faces of everyone he noticed at the departure gate, and on the plane, an olive skinned Italian man rushed to free the woman's bag from the conveyor belt that had been holding it hostage.
She thanked him in what sounded like flawless Italian. In all his years of coming to Venice, Samson had only picked up a few words here and there, but he knew enough to understand that she was telling this man she could handle her bag from here. Not letting go of it, the man continued with his questions, most likely asking where she came from and where she was going. Samson didn't understand anything she was saying, but the look on both of their faces told him she was politely turning the man's advances down. A feeling of relief moved over him like sunshine. Samson knew all too well this man wasn't interested in getting to know the dark haired woman in the sapphire pant suit that had suddenly captured his own attention. He felt as if he had been watching a hunter shoot an arrow and miss a majestic wild animal. A hunter himself, Samson believed envy must be the reason he had been holding his breath and he exhaled when the man finally moved on to another target.
Samson (Chapter One, Part Two)
......
He had seen her only once outside of her tours. It had to be two years ago, or maybe three. He had convinced a blond USC grad to break away from her Pi Phi sisters and meet him at Il Ridotto for dinner. Amazingly enough, although the whole place has a total of five tables, Gina was coming in (alone) as he was coaxing Blondie out of the restaurant. Of all the times to run into Gina, it had to be the night his date was so inebriated she could hardly stand up; she was singing "O-so-lo-me-o" and begging him, literally on her knees begging him, to take her on a gondola ride so they could "kiss under the Bridge of Sighs", even though it was well past sunset. Score one for Gina as she casually explained to Blondie the story behind the bridge's name was quite different than the local legend that promises sweethearts, who kiss on a gondola as they pass under the bridge, to be assured eternal love. "It's interesting, the bridge actually connects the interrogation rooms to the old prisons in the Doge Palace. So the story goes, convicts would sigh at their last view of the free world as they were taken to their cells." For the second time, Gina appeared to be laughing at him. When a person doesn't want you to know they are laughing at you, they'll get that smug little half-smirk on their face, but Gina was showing dimples and looked at him with a chuckle in her eye. Even after all these years of the same crash and burn pattern, he continued to track his prey, sure that one year he'd be able to bring home the trophy.
Until this year.
A new obsession caught his eye the moment he arrived at Marco Polo Airport. He probably hadn't noticed her on the plane, because he had been chatting up the flight attendant, comparing notes on the best places for morning espresso on the islands. She just couldn't be convinced that place was his room, the Library Suite at Ca'Sagredo. Well aware from personal experience that catching a flight attendant proved as difficult as hailing a Manhattan taxi in a rainstorm, it didn't prevent him from trying every time he boarded another plane. Letting that trail grow cold didn't take long once he noticed a damsel in distress struggling to get her suitcase off the baggage carousel. From what he could tell, part of a strap from the bag had somehow gotten caught and, to make matters worse, there was a much larger bag lodged on top of it. Samson knew that everything she brought must be in that bag since she didn't have a carry on with her. He wasn't much of a clothes horse but he instantly recognized the outfit she was wearing, a stunning royal blue linen pant suit that held the spotlight in the Manhattan Macy's window the week before.
He had seen her only once outside of her tours. It had to be two years ago, or maybe three. He had convinced a blond USC grad to break away from her Pi Phi sisters and meet him at Il Ridotto for dinner. Amazingly enough, although the whole place has a total of five tables, Gina was coming in (alone) as he was coaxing Blondie out of the restaurant. Of all the times to run into Gina, it had to be the night his date was so inebriated she could hardly stand up; she was singing "O-so-lo-me-o" and begging him, literally on her knees begging him, to take her on a gondola ride so they could "kiss under the Bridge of Sighs", even though it was well past sunset. Score one for Gina as she casually explained to Blondie the story behind the bridge's name was quite different than the local legend that promises sweethearts, who kiss on a gondola as they pass under the bridge, to be assured eternal love. "It's interesting, the bridge actually connects the interrogation rooms to the old prisons in the Doge Palace. So the story goes, convicts would sigh at their last view of the free world as they were taken to their cells." For the second time, Gina appeared to be laughing at him. When a person doesn't want you to know they are laughing at you, they'll get that smug little half-smirk on their face, but Gina was showing dimples and looked at him with a chuckle in her eye. Even after all these years of the same crash and burn pattern, he continued to track his prey, sure that one year he'd be able to bring home the trophy.
Until this year.
A new obsession caught his eye the moment he arrived at Marco Polo Airport. He probably hadn't noticed her on the plane, because he had been chatting up the flight attendant, comparing notes on the best places for morning espresso on the islands. She just couldn't be convinced that place was his room, the Library Suite at Ca'Sagredo. Well aware from personal experience that catching a flight attendant proved as difficult as hailing a Manhattan taxi in a rainstorm, it didn't prevent him from trying every time he boarded another plane. Letting that trail grow cold didn't take long once he noticed a damsel in distress struggling to get her suitcase off the baggage carousel. From what he could tell, part of a strap from the bag had somehow gotten caught and, to make matters worse, there was a much larger bag lodged on top of it. Samson knew that everything she brought must be in that bag since she didn't have a carry on with her. He wasn't much of a clothes horse but he instantly recognized the outfit she was wearing, a stunning royal blue linen pant suit that held the spotlight in the Manhattan Macy's window the week before.
Samson (Chapter One, Part One)
"In the lunette, or archway, to my left, your right, you'll see a dipiction of the theft of St. Mark's relics (his bones). So the story goes, in the year 828, Venetian sailors smuggled the apostle's bones out of Alexandria, where he had been laid to rest in peace, by covering them with a layer of pork. Muslims, of course, are not allowed by their religion to touch pork so this was a very ingenious method of thievery. You can see one man even holding his nose! It's not part of this tour, but entrance into the Bascilica is free. It is truly a 'must-see'. The line might seem long, but it does move quite quickly. I can tell you, and this is not Venetian bias talking here, it is the most beautiful bascilica in the whole world."
Even though Samson Kincaid had been coming to Venice, Italy, for their annual, Mardis Gras-esque festivities, aptly named "Carnival", eight years running, he made a point to follow this particular tour at least once during his stay. The tour guide, Ginevra, made each tour unique rather than reciting dull, dry, memorized facts about Samson's favorite city in the world. And, he had to keep coming back...after all, he still didn't even know her last name. He felt certain she was playing hard to get, because she couldn't be serious when she told him she wasn't interested. He believed himself to be a professional people-reader, with the ability to discern a person's character in a mere glance. Even if some of the human objects of his observing eye might have disagreed with him, he remained quite arrogant regarding his self-professed skill. Watching Gina, as he liked to call her, all these years, brought him to make several conclusions, even though some people might call them assumptions.
She never wore jewelry of any kind. In Samson's mind this had to mean she wasn't married. Clearly her long, shiny, dark hair, that always smelled of flowers, indicated she lived alone and didn't have any pets because she obviously never had to fight for bathroom time and didn't have some smelly dog to take care of. He overheard most of the information he had gathered over the years; she didn't openly reveal personal information, showing she valued discretion. Once, a hilarious camera-clicker from Alabama bombarded her with questions about Venitian life, saying she wanted to move to the islands. Gina let it slip that she lived in a smaller island away from the mainstream of tourist traffic. It made him happy to know she enjoyed being away from all the hustle and bustle. He had decided this was proof of her intellect. She very obviously practiced the art of yoga or pilates as evidenced by her easy grace, tall height and lean build, having excellent muscle tone in her ankles and forearms (she never wore anything more revealing, which showed her sense of propriety). Perhaps she had been a balerina when she was younger.
Although Samson arrived in Venice alone, he almost always found someone with whom to enjoy his vacation. Yet, he could never quite figure out why Gina didn't take him up on his offers to escort her to dinner. That didn't prevent him from continuing his efforts.
A few years ago, as the tour group walked through the compact streets of the city, she told a rotund Floridian retiree, the very best pastries were found at Rizzardini. Wanting to surprise her the next morning, he woke up before dawn to make the trek from his hotel on Cannaregio, across five different bridges to Calle Fiubera, only to discover Rizzardini is closed Tuesdays. He repeated the journey Wednesday and showed up for her daybreak San Michelle Cemetry tour with a box of pastine di riso, their specialty, only to find out this particular pastry is eaten most often as a dessert, not an early-morning donut. No wonder the counter girl told him he should come back after dinner to get the fresh ones. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn Gina had laughed at attempts to impress her.
Even though Samson Kincaid had been coming to Venice, Italy, for their annual, Mardis Gras-esque festivities, aptly named "Carnival", eight years running, he made a point to follow this particular tour at least once during his stay. The tour guide, Ginevra, made each tour unique rather than reciting dull, dry, memorized facts about Samson's favorite city in the world. And, he had to keep coming back...after all, he still didn't even know her last name. He felt certain she was playing hard to get, because she couldn't be serious when she told him she wasn't interested. He believed himself to be a professional people-reader, with the ability to discern a person's character in a mere glance. Even if some of the human objects of his observing eye might have disagreed with him, he remained quite arrogant regarding his self-professed skill. Watching Gina, as he liked to call her, all these years, brought him to make several conclusions, even though some people might call them assumptions.
She never wore jewelry of any kind. In Samson's mind this had to mean she wasn't married. Clearly her long, shiny, dark hair, that always smelled of flowers, indicated she lived alone and didn't have any pets because she obviously never had to fight for bathroom time and didn't have some smelly dog to take care of. He overheard most of the information he had gathered over the years; she didn't openly reveal personal information, showing she valued discretion. Once, a hilarious camera-clicker from Alabama bombarded her with questions about Venitian life, saying she wanted to move to the islands. Gina let it slip that she lived in a smaller island away from the mainstream of tourist traffic. It made him happy to know she enjoyed being away from all the hustle and bustle. He had decided this was proof of her intellect. She very obviously practiced the art of yoga or pilates as evidenced by her easy grace, tall height and lean build, having excellent muscle tone in her ankles and forearms (she never wore anything more revealing, which showed her sense of propriety). Perhaps she had been a balerina when she was younger.
Although Samson arrived in Venice alone, he almost always found someone with whom to enjoy his vacation. Yet, he could never quite figure out why Gina didn't take him up on his offers to escort her to dinner. That didn't prevent him from continuing his efforts.
A few years ago, as the tour group walked through the compact streets of the city, she told a rotund Floridian retiree, the very best pastries were found at Rizzardini. Wanting to surprise her the next morning, he woke up before dawn to make the trek from his hotel on Cannaregio, across five different bridges to Calle Fiubera, only to discover Rizzardini is closed Tuesdays. He repeated the journey Wednesday and showed up for her daybreak San Michelle Cemetry tour with a box of pastine di riso, their specialty, only to find out this particular pastry is eaten most often as a dessert, not an early-morning donut. No wonder the counter girl told him he should come back after dinner to get the fresh ones. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn Gina had laughed at attempts to impress her.
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