The Chapel Read Online Free Page B

had short dark hair parted on the side—she couldn’t have been fifty—and she was wearing pink capri pants with a pink bolero jacket over a white turtleneck, which made me think she lived alone and didn’t have any close friends. Surely, someone wholoved her would have suggested a simple cotton cardigan. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so I reached up and rummaged for my cell phone while I assessed my options.
    No one else moved.
    The seats across the aisle from the knitter were occupied by a trench coat. The next two rows on both sides were apparently reserved for retired married couples, the four wives tucked neatly into window seats, their husbands with newspapers and maps sprawled out, legs crossed, their big shoes blocking the aisle. Behind the couples, next to the only open seats, was a tall, silver-haired gentleman with his eyes closed. Even at a glance, he was much too composed to be sleeping, so maybe he was meditating, but more likely he was praying I wouldn’t sit in the open row beside him. In the aisle seats at the very back, two women with identical silver perms and shiny navy blue jogging suits—sisters or suburban lesbians—were happily passing a digital camera back and forth, reviewing the record of their two days in Venice.
    Huge raindrops splattered against the windows, and the sun retreated across the concrete parking lot like an outgoing tide. This turn in the weather didn’t improve anybody’s mood, so I smiled apologetically at the knitter and said, “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
    She waved me down. Once I was settled and the bus had pulled out of the parking lot, she pointed her thumb at the trench coat on the empty seats and whispered, “He’s the one who yelled at you. Welcome to junior high school.” She took up her knitting.
    I had a text from Rachel, which read: √
    The day had gone dark, and the Italian weather was being compared unfavorably to summer days in Raleigh, North Carolina, by the couple behind us, and they were also annoyed at the tour guide’s failure to clear up their confusion about Venice, the Veneto, and Vicenza, which was creating some anxiety about Tuesday.
    I saw the month ahead as a wall calendar, each day an empty window I wanted to jump out.
    â€œMy name is Shelby Cohen,” said the knitter, never looking up from her lap, “and if you prefer peace and quiet, just say so.”
    â€œI was admiring your needles,” I said. On the top of the one nearest me was a shiny, piercingly blue stone disk in a silver setting.
    She said, “Do you knit?”
    â€œOh, god, no,” I said, and into the awkward silence that followed, I tossed another conversation stopper. “I really don’t do anything.”
    â€œI don’t either, not in the summer,” she said casually. “I’m an accountant, and so is Allen, my husband, so we each take a month off in the summer, after the late-filing madness dies down. He’s a climber, and me—well, I’m a shopper. I found these needles last summer in a little hand-forging operation in a tiny town on Galway Bay, would you believe.”
    â€œIs that a gemstone?”
    â€œLapis lazuli,” she said.
    I’d only ever seen that in museums. “So they are really precious.”
    â€œNo, fifteen euros or something for the pair, but I think they were meant to be displayed and not used.” She showed me the top of the other needle. The silver setting was empty. She examined a patch of ivory wool ribbing she’d finished. “One cuff,” she said. “I am so sorry your husband died. I hope there’s some comfort for you in being here.”
    The Boston Globe obituary for Mitchell had been sent out as an addendum to the little biographical notes compiled by the tour company, which were meant to give us a head start on getting acquainted with our fellow travelers. I had never gotten around to