As the water taxi sped across the lagoon, the two young honeymooners gazed ahead in awe.
Wilbur squeezed Maggie's hand and leaned into her as they sat at the back of the small boat, the sun glittering on the water in front of them.
"I love you, Mr. Budd," she told him, her words as natural as breath.
"I love you too, Mrs. Budd."
Maggie laughed, softly, at how funny and official that sounded.
They held hands as the boat chugged its way toward the city, their fingers intertwined like tangled roots. The ninth of August 1974.
Wilbur turned away from the view in front of him, toward the person he had known since childhood.
"We'll always be like this, won't we?" Maggie asked him.
He smiled reassuringly. "Of course. Why wouldn't we?" They kissed as the lagoon merged into the Grand Canal. "I don't know. Time changes things." "But look at Venice. It's not changed in hundreds of years. This could be 1574 just as easily as 1974." She looked over toward the city. "Aye. Let's ignore time. Let's be Venice." He watched as she held up her Pentax camera, a wedding present from her father, and aimed it toward the Doges Palace, its pink and white stone facade and intricate arches rising directly above the lagoon like a Byzantine fever dream.
"Forever," added Wilbur, laughing. She put a hand through his tousled hair, which was just about the longest it ever got to. "Yes, forever and ever and ever." The boat slowed a little. "There," said the boatman, pointing toward a pretty but slightly decrepit terra-cotta building. "Hotel Proserpina." Wilbur and Maggie had never been abroad before, and the sight looked exotic and full of promise. And neither of them, at that moment, could see the figure watching from the shore, the one who looked so much like Wilbur himself that it would have been impossible to tell the difference.
An hour later they were sitting in easy silence drinking wine in the shade at a café by the Grand Canal, watching the city unfold. Wilbur was wearing the same sandals, flared jeans, and short-sleeved green shirt with large collars that he had worn on the plane, and Maggie was in her orange jumpsuit. He told her she looked like a film star and she told him to stop being corny but she smiled all the same. A vaporetto full of tourists chugged by. Maggie began reminiscing about the wedding. "I've never seen your mam so happy," she said. "She didn't mention . . ." She paused, didn't want to taint the moment. "Dougie? Aye, no. She didn't. I've not seen Mam like that. Not since everything that happened. I think the gin had helped. Your dad too . . ." "Look at you," Maggie said, smiling under the sun's glare. "Look at me, what?" "Sitting back in your chair like an emperor." "I'm just happy." "As you should be. You are on your honeymoon." Wilbur felt her study him a little closer. "You're not thinking about the shop?" He shook his head. "No, actually," he lied. Or half lied.