She was tired. Eventually, she had to say something.
“Hon,” he called from the den; “Come see what I just found.”
She was comfy on her couch reading a novel she’d been trying to get to for months, but he was so excited that she couldn’t bring herself to call out what she really was thinking: “I’ll look later.” Instead, she slid from under her blanket and walked into the computer room where, predictably, his face was inches from the screen.
“About thirty minutes north of Bellagio, there’s this great little hotel right on Lake Como. The room on the third floor has panoramic views and is still available. And it’s only a five-minute walk along a seawall path to the dock where we can take ferries to the old villas.”
He clicked, pointed and clicked again, “The gardens at these old estates look beautiful, no?”
It was really pretty, but….
“So, what do you think?
“When would you want to go?”
“Late June. Before the big summer rush, but warm enough to enjoy everything.” He really was a travel genius down to the last detail. He also was generous: so much of what he planned was for her benefit. He liked everything, but quaint accommodations, flower gardens and shopping would not have been at the top of his list; “And I’ve already checked airfares. Excellent prices, at least for now.”
“How would we get there?”
“Direct flight from JFK to Milan. Then a train north.”
She hesitated: a nine-hour flight followed by a three-hour ride on the rails. She could picture dragging luggage from the airport terminal to a shuttle into central Milan, then transferring to a train. That’s what they had done a decade earlier when they went to Cinque Terra, but they were a lot younger back then.
“Or we can take car service right from the airport to Varenna. That would be a lot easier.”
“Verona?”
“No, that’s east of Milan. This is a small town up north. Looks really cute.” He clicked, “Nice, huh?”
“Isn’t car service expensive?”
“Not too bad. More than a train, but less than you’d think.” She nodded. All this was beside the point; “So?”
“Everything looks great,” she said.
“But?”
It was time to spill the beans, “I’m getting a little tired.”
He finally took his eyes off the computer screen, “Of what?”
“I’ve been adding up what we’ve done since we retired last June: Europe twice- this would be number three- two national parks, and once to Seattle for our college friend get-together. That’s six long trips in twelve months. And let’s not forget we’ve been spending a fortune. We saved for this, but there is a limit.”
His smile drooped, “I’m sorry. We’ve been doing too much.”
“I’ve loved it all.” And she did.
“But sometimes too much of a good thing can turn pleasure into a burden. I know. You’re right. I’ve been too desperate.”
“You’re just trying to take advantage of all the free time we have.”
“Before we croak.”
“We’re not going to croak!”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. But regardless of when we croak, aren’t you a little weary from all this travelling?”
“Sometimes. But then I think if not now, when? At least we still can walk.”
“That’s true. But…”
He hung his head; “It’s been too much. I’m being ridiculous. We don’t have to go to Italy.”
“No, let’s do your trip, but maybe wait a while. June might be a bit too soon.”
He nodded, “That makes sense.” He turned back to the screen and stared at the image of a cobblestone street leading down to the lake. He was disappointed.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Of course.”
After fifty years together, she could feel his positive and negative vibes, and right now he was emitting one emotion: bummed. Trip planning gave him a spark, and now that she had snuffed out his latest fire he would be down for days. “Until then,” she said, “Maybe we can do something a little less ambitious.”
“Like what?”
She didn’t want to do anything other than settle into routines around their own town, interspersed with some days in the city… museums, plays, strolls in neighborhoods they’d never visited, “We can play it by ear.”
He popped to his feet, trying to push past disappointment. He took a final glance at his computer, then turned to face her, “Feel like a walk?”
“Definitely.” They both loved their small suburban town on the bay, a special place where they had grown up, went to high school, and after separate colleges and grad schools, had returned home to raise a family. These walks always lifted his spirits. But not this time. She could tell he was faking it. And yet, on this lovely April morning, they walked and talked about all kinds of things, as they always did, though they made sure not to mention Italy again.
*
With each passing day he sank deeper. He was sleeping later, binge watching Netflix series, going to bed early. Soon she’d have to scrape him off the couch just to eat dinner. And for what reason? She had turned him into a zombie when all the poor guy wanted to do was experience a beautiful overseas adventure. Why had she made such a big deal? She didn’t feel so tired anymore and was starting to realize that she also regretted not going to Italy again.
She could not let this stand. One afternoon, while still trying to lift himself from the doldrums, he suggested a stroll around the bay. She faked feeling a bit nauseous and sent him on his way with a kiss to the cheek. She listened to the front door click shut, then scurried to his computer where she located what she knew would be right on his desktop: a super detailed outline of their cancelled trip to Italy.
All the info was at her fingertips: flights, hotel in Varenna, ferry times, websites for old villas where you could purchase timed tickets for tours of the terraced gardens, then a train back to Milan (she was guessing he’d switch to car service) where they would stay for a couple of days before their flight home. She clicked on a link to a lovely bed and breakfast in the heart of the city. The green-and-white house was only a block from Santa Maria delle Grazie, home of the The Last Supper, and if she clicked on another link, she could reserve a small guided tour, the only way to see Leonardo’s masterpiece. This trip was even better than he’d advertised.
Her first instinct was to tell him that she had changed her mind, but that wouldn’t work. He would feel guilty about “forcing” her to take a trip, and no matter how much she protested, he wouldn’t believe her. She could never get him to do what she now truly wanted him to do. So, she shifted to Plan B: she would start the wheels rolling without him! Once everything was in place, they’d have no choice but to go!
She took a deep breath, then in a non-stop flurry bought plane tickets, put down deposits on rooms, scheduled tours. She used her own email address for confirmations, double-checked everything, then leaned back in his chair. It might not be his version of perfect, but once he saw what she had done, he could dive into details he wanted to change.
She decided not to tell him right away. Their 45th anniversary was coming up and this would be a perfect gift. She printed out confirmations and placed them in a manila envelope she found in his desk drawer. She hated to drag out his travel-deprived misery even for another day, but he could last another couple of weeks, and when she finally did spring this on him, the thrill would be even more intense. As he often said to her, “Pleasure delayed is pleasure enhanced.”
Exactly.
*
To her surprise, the next morning, his spunk suddenly was back. He woke early, roused her to take a four-mile hike on the Jones Beach boardwalk, and on the way home stopped for banana stuffed French Toast at their favorite diner. Had he somehow seen what she had done? He was always fiddling around on his computer so maybe the night before he had checked the search history and put two and two together. But that didn’t seem likely. They had been jabbering for hours and he hadn’t made a peep about Italy.
Maybe he had bounced back on his own. He didn’t like to mope for too long, so maybe he had regained his equilibrium. As they parked in their driveway, she could feel it full blast: her husband, crushed as recently as yesterday, was genuinely exuberant.
By the time their anniversary arrived, she also was bursting with enthusiasm: it hadn’t been easy staying mum about Italy and she’d almost tripped up more than once, but today was the day. She had no doubt he’d explode with delight when she unveiled all she had done. She sat at their dining room table holding a “Happy Anniversary” card, waiting for him to return from the local bakery with rolls and pastries, along with his traditional “special treat” to celebrate the day. She kept her secret manila envelope under her chair, waiting for the perfect moment.
It seemed to take longer than usual, but he finally returned with more bags of goodies than two people could consume in a week. That’s the way he was. Today was a big day. “Should we first exchange gifts?” she asked.
“Definitely. Back in a second.” He ran into the computer room and came back with a card in his right hand and his left hand behind his back.
She laughed: “What are you hiding?”
He dropped into a chair, “You go first.”
She was desperate to show him everything, barely able to contain herself, but she also wanted her presentation to be a climactic moment. “That’s okay,” she lied; “I’m dying to see what you’re hiding.”
He pulled out a manila envelope just like hers! She almost fell off her chair. What was this? “You were right about my maniacal travel plans. Italy would have been too much. So, I decided to do something less stressful.” He slid sheets of paper out of his envelope, “Let’s be tourists in our own backyard!”
She surveyed his printouts: two Broadway plays, lunch and dinner reservations, even tickets to the top of the Empire State building. “And to make it all easier…,” he pulled out one last printout; “Three nights at the Four Seasons Hotel downtown.”
She couldn’t move, “When is this all for?”
He pointed to the reservation, “The exact week we were going to Italy!”
She felt her manila envelope with her foot, “Won’t this cost a ton of money?”
“Less than Italy. And we’ll do a lot more with a lot less effort!” He walked to her side of the table and hugged her, “Now tell me: what kind of surprise do you have for me?”
Stewart Bellus’ recently published a short story collection “Moments of Truth.” He previously published “The Villa,” a novel set in WW II Italy, and short stories in literary magazines including Confrontation, Mediphors, Dumbo Press, SportScribe and WayWords.
