Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

a few small sculptures, graced both the low table in front of the sofa and those beside several overstuffed chairs. In a corner, near the room’s largest window, a baby grand piano stood proudly displaying a large cloisonné vase filled to overflowing with pale pink cabbage roses. A large Persian rug of muted colors, all soft tones of green and rose-tinted terracotta, anchored the furnishings. The fireplace face was constructed of a dark, richly grained mahogany, and the mantle was edged with intricate carvings of flowers and vines.

Hanging above the mantle was a gilt-edged Venetian glass mirror in the shape of a hexagon. An Italian politician had taught Ana how to recognize Venetian glass, and seeing it always took her back to the day of the lesson. She had met the man when she accompanied a male colleague to Italy several years before. The journalist had been assigned to interview the official about the ‘Save Venice Inc.’ restoration project. The Italian had been charming and very willing to tutor Ana in the history and fine art of glassmaking. He had generously provided her journalist friend with enough information for a long day of writing then insisted they go to Murano, where Ana could see the process first hand. She was told that the length of the field trip would require lunch at his favorite trattoria on the island. The tour had been interesting, and the Prosecco with lunch had been refreshing.

On the return to Venice, standing with her tutor at the deck railing, watching Venice come into closer view, she had suddenly felt a hand slide around her waist, and then down to her buttocks. He squeezed—hard. He leaned toward her and in heavily accented English whispered a very explicit request to be carried out at Hotel Boscolo Veneti, the closest venue after docking. Much to his disappointment, especially after having paid for lunch, the pillar of the community was to be humiliated by a hard slap from a woman much too young for his attentions. The next day her colleague questioned the man’s sudden uncooperative attitude. The experience had served to chip away at Ana’s naïveté, and since then, on the rare occasion when she has seen Venetian glass, it has caused her to smile.

The fleeting memory gone, she was attracted to a collection of framed photos displayed on the mantle; however, as a first-time guest she didn’t feel it would be appropriate to linger and stare. She sat down beside Ben on the gray suede sofa. Hugh brought a beer to Ben and a glass of wine to Ana. He gently handed Paris her favorite martini before turning back to fetch his tumbler of Scotch. He then sat down beside her in the matching chair. There was a quiet moment before conversation began, during which Paris uttered a very audible sigh. It seemed as though she had been holding her breath until her son and his friend had arrived and were safely ensconced in her nest.

Ben was sure that his mother had not kept the preceding events from his father, and he was waiting to see how they would segue into the subject. But each parent was playing the charming host, asking questions of Ana about her career, her family, and her hopes for the future. Ben noticed a little discomfort in Ana’s body language and was concerned that she was being put on the spot. He hoped she thought they were genuinely interested rather than intrusive.

Finally, Ben interrupted and said, “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.” Everyone made some gesture of discomfort during the pause. Ana rearranged herself on the sofa cushion, Paris fussed with smoothing her skirt, and Hugh brushed something imaginary from his sweater.

Hugh ended the awkward moment and said, “Go on, Ben. Give me your version of events. Your mother was quite upset when she told me and may have left something out.”

“Mum, I know you’ve talked to Dad about what you saw and what I told you when you came to the flat.” His mother looked down, guilty as charged, and then turned to Hugh and gave another expressive sigh. Knowing there was no escape from their concern, he continued, “Dad, I hope that at least you haven’t implemented an investigation. I know that your buddies at Interpol owe you favors.”

“No, son,” Hugh said, “I don’t have enough facts to make it worthwhile.”

Paris interjected, “I still don’t know what they want.” She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, obviously frustrated.

“We’re taking a good part of the weekend to enjoy you being here,” said Hugh. “But tomorrow I’m going to escort your mother to the museum and hang around to see if she’s contacted again. People work in those offices seven days a week. From now on I don’t intend to let her out of my sight.” He reached over and squeezed her hand affectionately. “You two will remain here, on the property—preferably in the house.”

Ben put his beer bottle on the side table and stood. He walked over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantle, his back to everyone, and said, “I can’t stand that I’ve involved all of you in this mess.”

Paris rose from her chair and went to stand beside him, taking his arm and then clutching his hand. “It’s not your doing, son. You’re the unwilling bystander. They want something from me and were trying to use you as a bargaining chip. We still don’t know what that is.”

She took Ben by the hand and led him back to the sofa, where he flopped down, rubbed his face with his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair—a sure sign of stress and frustration that his mother had come to know very well. Ana had been taking it all in. Ben had still not admitted to her the reason for his ruse to get her there. But she was analytical, intelligent, and it became clear that all three were worried about her safety