The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 10





There was one thing Faith could do right now. She could call her sister. Her cell was in the suitcase and she had been keeping it charged. Tom’s was there, as she’d expected. It was too much to hope that he’d taken it with him. She sat back down, took out her journal, and turned to the back, where she’d written how to dial the States, punching in the numbers that would take her across the miles to Hope’s cell.

Hope Sibley did not change her name when she married Quentin Lewis Jr., but did some years later when Quentin III came along. Faith had suggested she add something to her name like “Imperial Mother and Wife I,” but Hope had merely stuck “Sibley” in the middle. She was the exception to the rule that it was impossible for a woman to have it all—a lucrative, prestigious job, happy marriage, and motherhood—seeming to juggle the roles effortlessly, and admirably. The phrase “I don’t know how she does it” was coined for Hope, but, in fact, Faith did know how. Money for a start, which bought a wonderful nanny, who stayed on as a housekeeper. Money also provided a spacious duplex apartment on Manhattan’s West Side. And it also paid for romantic, albeit short, romantic getaways with hubby, who was equally dedicated to the pursuit of the next rung until the ladder stopped—where? Some kind of ultimate stratospheric corner office? Hope had been born with advanced organizational skills—sorting M&M’s by color had been mere child’s play on the way to a BlackBerry and smart phone, with Skype to check in with little Quentin as soon as he came home from school each day.

And on top of everything, it was impossible to hate her because she was an absolute darling.

“What’s wrong?” Hope had answered the phone before the end of the first ring.

Since it was 3 A.M. New York time, she knew Faith wasn’t calling to chat about Chianti DOCs.

“It’s complicated—and I’ll explain when I get home—but I need you to do something for me as soon as you get into the office.”

Another nice thing about Hope was that she never wasted time with unnecessary questions.

“You have people at work who are fluent in Italian, right?”

“Several.”

“I need someone to call the box office of the Teatro Verdi on Via Giuseppe Verdi in Florence and buy me a ticket for whatever performances they have tomorrow, Friday, May thirteenth. There may be both a matinee and an evening concert. I don’t have access to a schedule.”

“Just the one ticket?”

“Just one and in the front row or near the front of the first balcony, or the equivalent—someplace where I can see as much of the theater as possible. Have the ticket left at the box office under my name.” She didn’t worry about being so specific. Hope would pull it off.

“I’ll be going in at six, so it won’t take long after that,” Hope said.

Faith had learned years ago when her sister first started working in this totally alternate universe that normal working hours didn’t apply. Until she made partner, Hope slept most nights on a couch in her office. Finding an Italian speaker this early in the morning would not pose a problem.

“Thanks. And don’t worry.”

“Whenever you say this, I know you’re in trouble or will be soon. Are you sure I don’t need to do anything else?”

“Yes! I almost forgot. I need the address of the British consulate in Florence. I have the American one.”

Faith didn’t want to use the computer downstairs anymore. Maybe she was being paranoid—or maybe she was just being smart.

“Okay. That I can do immediately. And I’ll get you the name of a contact. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

“Best to text everything from now on. The address and the performance or performances.”

They’d be leaving for the weekly market in the village soon, and she needed to go back downstairs. She didn’t want her phone ringing. She didn’t want to draw any attention to herself or what she was about to do whatsoever.

“Love you, Hope.”

“Love you, too—and be careful, please.”

“I’m always careful. Bye.”

Her sister ended the call, but not before Faith heard the heavy sigh traveling through cyberspace.

The village market presented the same alluring panoply of food, enticing to eye and mouth, as the Mercato Centrale, but was much smaller. Tables were spread out under an octagonal timbered roof held up by brickwork columns. Francesca told them that there had been a market on this spot for centuries and that parts of the current structure went back to the Middle Ages.

Faith liked the way some tables had set out a few simple offerings—radishes pulled an hour or so ago, spring onions, lettuces, jars of honey—while others were clearly outlets for larger producers that traveled to the various hill town markets. These offered samples of cheeses and salamis. The sellers’ cries urging buyers to “Mangia, mangia” were hard to resist. All the purveyors were dressed in a layered assortment of aprons, tee shirts that proclaimed team favorites, caps, and bandannas.

She found herself walking with the Russos. She realized she knew very little about them other than where they lived, that Len was in “waste management,” Terry a Twilight fan—and they seemed unhappy. Normally she would have asked about their family, whether they had kids, and did they grow up in Livingston, New Jersey? Faith had dear friends who had. Maybe they knew them? She was always fascinated by people’s stories and she would already have found out this sort of information. The week had been anything but normal, though. Asking now would take her mind off the Teatro Verdi—and Tom.

“Did you both grow up in Livingston?”

Terry shook her head. “Len is from Verona, not far from Livingston, and I was born in Philadelphia, but my parents moved to West Orange, New Jersey, when I was a baby. I’m a Jersey girl, though all these reality shows have been giving people the wrong idea about us.”

“I know you don’t pump gas,” Faith said. “And I know why—it’s against the law in New Jersey to pump your own gas, male or female.”

Terry laughed. “The first time I went to a gas station in another state—it was New York—I sat in the car waiting for a long time, thinking they were on the phone or something. Finally a guy came out and wanted to know if I was going to start paying rent. Then he saw the plates and said, ‘Oh, you’re from Jersey.’ He was nice about it and showed me how to fill the tank.”

“Oregon, too,” Len said. “Not that I’ve been there. In Jersey, the law was passed in the 1940s so people wouldn’t blow themselves up, like smoke when they were pumping. Personally I like it. Nothing wrong with being waited on, and our gas isn’t any more expensive than other states.”

“I like it, too, mainly because it’s the only time I ever do get waited on,” Terry said.

Faith quickly interjected, “How about kids? We have two, a teen and a tween.”

The couple looked daggers at each other and there was a long pause before Terry answered. “Oh yes, we have kids. Three great ones. Len Junior works for Prudential, Jennifer got married last summer—she’s a nurse at Saint Barnabas—and our baby, Frankie, has one more year of college. He’s at Drew University. They all chipped in to give us this trip for our anniversary. Our thirtieth.”

“That’s wonderful!” Faith said. “As I think my husband mentioned, it’s our anniversary trip, too, although not the thirtieth yet. Congratulations!”

They were still looking at each other with undisguised antipathy, suggesting there wouldn’t be a thirty-first.

“Everything was paid for, and anyway,” Terry said. “I didn’t want to tell them—”

If he could have clapped a hand over his wife’s mouth without drawing even more attention to what was an increasingly awkward situation, Faith was sure Len Russo would have. What he did do was interrupt.

“Your husband was in a big hurry this morning.”

“You saw him? When?” Suddenly Faith wasn’t at all interested in the Russos’ marital problems or whether she had Livingston friends in common with them.

“It was early. I was in the bathroom using the, well, I was in the bathroom, and I looked out the window. He was tearing up the path behind the house like there was no tomorrow.”

“Was he alone?” The market disappeared from her thoughts. Two people had seen Tom rushing off. Constance and now Len. To Siena? Or someplace connected to Friday the thirteenth, the date in Freddy’s note.

“Didn’t see anybody else, but I wasn’t taking any pictures.”

Tom was heading up the path, which meant he was on his way here, to the village, most likely. Buses went not only to Siena but also to a number of other places—including Florence.

Len’s phrase reminded Faith that she wanted to get photos of the class, surreptitiously. She left the Russos to their bickering.

How do spies do it? she wondered a few minutes later. She’d been able to get a shot of Sky and Jack, ducking quickly out from behind one of the columns. Olivia was seemingly intent on an array of red, turban-shaped tomatoes, and she sneaked one of her. But the others were proving difficult. Francesca solved the problem by calling, “Everyone, could you gather here by me and we’ll decide what to cook tonight, now that you’ve had a chance to see what’s here.”

Faith was able to snap the whole group from behind a table with baskets of potatoes, the soil still clinging to the skins—red, purple, yellow, shades of brown—before joining them. They’d added a pair of petite, attractive women to the group, who, hearing English, must have thought it was a tour the village was providing. No one dissuaded them, but realizing their mistake, they tried to leave with blushing apologies. Francesca insisted they stay and quickly gave them cards for Cucina della Rossi.

“Has anything caught your eye?” Francesca asked her students.

“The asparagus looks wonderful and we haven’t done a dish with that yet,” Olivia said. “Maybe use it in a few ways?”

“I love that idea,” Sally said. “A celebration of asparagi!”

“We could use it in risotto for Il Primo—I want to do another one that you will make,” Francesca said. “And then it’s so good roasted and wrapped with a slice of proscuitto as an antipasto.” She pointed to one of the sellers. “They make an excellent one. We’ll get plenty. After that it will be seafood. Gianni will bring scampi for sure. He wants to do some of the shrimp on the grill, and that will be part of our antipasto, too. I won’t know the other fish until he gets back. We can have some of the asparagi in a cheese sauce as a contorni. It will go with any kind of fish. Any other ideas? Remember, this will be the last night we cook together, so you must tell me what you want.”

Tomorrow night the Rossis had arranged a banquet for the class at a ristorante on Lago Trasimeno. Francesca had told Faith they wanted to make the last night special—no one working hard, just spending time together at what was one of the most beautiful spots in Italy before they all went their separate ways. She’d worked on the menu with their chef and the meal would be memorable, too. Faith thought it was a lovely idea. She pictured the end of the evening with farewells, some fonder than others, and promises to stay in touch, which no one would keep.

“How about grilling some asparagus along with eggplant and peppers?” Jack said. “I had something like that in a restaurant in Santa Monica and it was great, a little charred with a strong garlic flavor.”

One of the two women who’d inadvertently become part of the group said, “Did you see the thin stalks of wild asparagus? I only saw it on one table and you might want to try it.”

Her friend laughed. “Stalking the Wild Asparagus, Valerie? Remember that Euell Gibbons book from the 1960s?”

She explained to the group, “He was doing what was common practice in Italy—foraging in the wild for mushrooms, greens, things Americans thought were poisonous or weeds.”

“Come for dinner tonight,” Francesca said as they started to leave.

The one named Valerie answered, “That’s so kind of you, but I’m afraid we’re moving on to Siena. We like markets and only stayed to see this one. Our bus goes in an hour. Enjoy your meal. And thank you for the card. Something tells me you could be our next destination!”

Faith felt an instant kinship with them. They seemed to be having such a good time. The mention of Siena destroyed any vestige of calm for her, though. It didn’t make sense. Tom couldn’t possibly have gone off with everything that was going on.

Hattie was offering a menu suggestion. “Isn’t there some kind of Italian asparagus dish with an egg? Alla Bismarck, although why in God’s green acre they would name a tasty dish after a Prussian general here in Italy beats me.”

“I do not know why either, but it is what we call any dish with a fried egg on it, Pizza alla Bismarck is another,” Francesca said. “Why don’t we make small portions of it, use the wild asparagi for a simple contorni with butter and maybe a little cheese, with one more dish, an asparagus sformato, which is like a soufflé?”

Luke, who seemed an endless font of culinary lore, knew the answer to the question of Bismarck. And it wasn’t North Dakota. It was indeed named for the Prussian chancellor.

“Otto von Bismarck was well known not just for his abilities as a statesman and on the battlefield but as a molto trencherman who could consume vast amounts of food at one sitting. He was partial to eggs, topping everything from meats to vegetables with plenty of them fried.”

“To do the dish well, we need very fresh eggs, so it is fortunate we are here in the market,” Francesca said. “You need to keep chickens, Jean-Luc, and then we can have the uova and a nice bird, too, once in a while.”

“All I know is that with all this asparagus my piss is going to stink,” Len said, and after a glare from his wife, “pardon my French, my urine is going to stink.”

Terry wasn’t the only one who didn’t laugh, or at least smile, at the remark. Olivia seemed miles away, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Well, odore or no, let’s select our ingredients and then meet back at the van in an hour. Some of you mentioned you wanted time to explore the town,” Francesca said, handing Mario a large market basket. Faith had noticed that the sous chef had not been left behind on his own.

She didn’t feel much like exploring, but she did want to sit and look to see whether Hope had texted her yet. The caffè where she and Tom had had breakfast a few days ago seemed ideal. She also wanted to pick up a newspaper. The Nashes were not good at sharing theirs. Yesterday Jack had asked to see their Herald Tribune and Constance said they weren’t finished with it in a tone that really said, “Buy your own.”

It was unlikely there would be anything in the paper relating to what was playing at the Teatro Verdi, or anything else going on in Florence unless it was major news, but Faith thought she should check.

She sat at one of the small tables and ordered an espresso. She was going to miss this, she thought, as she looked out over the square, smaller than the one in Montepulciano but pulsing with activity. Maybe she’d try to get Aleford’s Minuteman Café to put a few tables on the sidewalk once the weather got good, although that could be late June some years.

Hope had texted voluminously. The Teatro Verdi was large, could seat 806, a historic nineteenth-century jewel—“lots of red velvet and gold” and there was a matinee on Friday featuring Ravel and Debussy. There was no public concert that night, as the theater would be closed for a private event. The matinee was sold out, but of course Hope had scored a ticket in the first balcony, also the other loges, as well as a box, in case Faith felt the need to move around. She added the address of the British consulate, telling Faith she was just in time, since at the end of the year it would be closing its doors after five hundred years, the victim of budget cuts. Hope obviously felt upset writing this—two exclamation marks. Despite her techie gadgets, she was an old-fashioned girl at heart and hated things like this.

She also gave Faith a contact name and a phone number at the consulate.

It was time to join the others. Once again those free-spirited Nashes had brought their own car, but the rest would be returning to the Rossis’ for a leisurely lunch before the lesson in the afternoon. Faith stopped at the one and only news dealer, just missing the last copy of the Herald, but since she saw Jack buying it, hoped she could get a look at the paper later.

Gianni had returned from Florence in their absence, left the food, and gone off again. Francesca didn’t know when he would be back.

“That man! He never tells me anything and doesn’t realize that now that we have the business, it’s not like the old days where he could go help a friend build a stone wall or prune the trees and disappear on me for hours.”

While still not wanting to tell Francesca without Gianni what was going on, Faith was getting increasingly anxious to know when he had taken Tom to the bus and whether Tom had said anything to him. Although if he had, Gianni would most certainly not have gone off. Unless it was to the authorities, in Florence, or here. So she got his cell number from Francesca and tried to reach him back in her room, but the phone was either switched off or not getting service. Nothing to do but wait.

The call from her husband’s abductors came at 3 P.M.

Expecting it would be Hope on her cell, Faith had trouble at first understanding the person on the other end, but it all became horribly clear soon. It was a man speaking in a heavy Italian or similar accent.

“We have your husband. He is fine. Tell no one, especially the police, or we will kill him.”

Very clear.

“I’ll get the money! How much do you want?”

“No money. You just wait. Do nothing.”

“How do I know he is fine? I want to speak to him!”

She heard the man cover the phone and some muffled sounds. Then Tom came on the line. Her eyes filled with tears of relief.

“Just do whatever they say, Faith. They’re hooded, so I’m sure this means they don’t plan to harm me. I can’t identify anyone.” He spoke slowly and distinctly before quickly adding, “So, I’m okay, although I wish I had my Bible with me. I could use the gospel of Saint Luke for comfort, especially chapter fifteen, verse sixteen. And a pen to write my thoughts down.”

Faith heard a voice say “Enough!” and the call was terminated. She quickly checked, and as she’d expected the number had been blocked. Without going to the police with their sophisticated tracking equipment, there was no way of knowing where Tom was being held or by whom.

Except for the clues in his own words, and the words of the Good Book. Faith quickly texted her sister: “Could you send me St. Luke, chapter 15, verse 16?”

The reply came back immediately: “He would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him.

“Thought the food was great? Or r u just getting religious?”

Faith wrote: “Yes and yes. Will explain later.”

Bless Tom’s career choice. When she saw him, and she would—any other thought was beyond considering—she’d apologize for all her complaints about parish life. She’d even take on the Sunday school Christmas pageant this year. Just keep him safe, Lord, until she could get him out. Because she now knew where he was and who had snatched him.

Luke, Jean-Luc, the good neighbor with the outrageous bagno. And it all was tied to Freddy’s pen—and Freddy’s murder.

She studied the verse. Tom wasn’t telling her he was hungry, although, she thought with a pang, he might be. He was telling her he was being kept in a pigsty, or some other kind of place that housed, or had housed, animals. And it was Tom himself who had told her that Gianni had wanted Jean-Luc to get going with his plans to pull down some old farm buildings far from the main house so the Rossis could rent the cleared space to plant more grapes. Except Jean-Luc was sure there were Etruscan treasures lurking underneath them and wanted a trained team to excavate the site. Etruscan treasures! With his intense interest, Jean-Luc must know about the tomb below the cantina in Montepulciano. Easy enough to slip away and lock Faith in. But why let her out? If, in fact, he had been her liberator?

She was due in the kitchen to start tonight’s meal soon but thought she’d stretch her legs first. There was something she wanted to check out. Tom never got on the bus to Siena, but Len Russo saw him running up the path behind the house. Unless Len was part of the gang—and at the moment Faith was adopting “Trust No One” as a motto—the path was where Tom had last been seen in the immediate area. She crossed her fingers.

Conspicuously wielding her camera, Faith snapped shots of the pool, the terraces, the gardens, and worked her way up to the hill, stopping to shoot a few of the back of the house and views in every direction. It was hot today and the sun had baked the soil, which would have been wet in the early morning hours after last night’s rain. Just as she’d dared hope, Tom’s Nikes had left distinctive footprints. He’d been here when the ground was still wet. Yet why had he left the house? Len said he’d been running. Running toward someone—Jean-Luc?—or away from someone—again Jean-Luc? Tempted as she was to follow the tracks, she took a few shots of some instead before strolling with very much assumed nonchalance back down to the house.

She had a plan, but there was nothing she could do now.

Except wait.

Faith was the last of the group to arrive in Cucina della Rossi’s kitchen and quickly put her apron on, ready to start.

“Sorry. That was Tom. He walked to the village for the bus, but said to thank Gianni and that we’d have to wait for our panforte. He met a visiting scholar from Saint Louis University’s Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies who offered to give him a private look at some manuscripts and stay the night at a guesthouse the Piccolomini Library has. What an opportunity! Kind of a Medici-slept-here thing, like the Lincoln bedroom at the White House!”

Neither ignoring, nor seeking out, Jean-Luc, Faith gave the performance of her life, rehearsed on the hill. Pausing, she could swear she heard someone take a sharp breath in, as if he or she thought Faith was going to say something more, something dangerous? For whom?

She was deliberately vague about time. When she expected him back. Tom’s captors had been equally vague—saying nothing in fact—but she was quite sure the Fairchilds wouldn’t be having breakfast together tomorrow. Whatever was going to happen at the Teatro Verdi would be later in the day.

“He must be so happy,” Francesca said. “I’m glad for him. If he calls again, tell him we will save some risotto. It is even better the next day.”

“I doubt he’ll call again. You know how he is about roaming charges. And yes, risotto is great the next day. I like to make it into cakes and fry them in olive oil. Tom has been known to scoop up risotto straight from the fridge to eat cold.” Faith kept her voice light. “Now, what are we cooking?”

While impossible to keep the fact that her husband was being held captive by hooded kidnappers not all that far away, Faith found that the act of cooking, of preparing food, was having its usual soothing effect on her. Gianni had purchased fresh branzino, Mediterranean sea bass. Francesca was describing how they would stuff it with lemons, rosemary, and slivers of leeks and either bake or grill, depending on what the class decided.

“You want to try to get a whole fish with the head and tail if possible and also have it cleaned and slit up the side. It is very easy to tell if fish is fresh.” She pointed to her nose. “This is the best test, but also look at it. Old fish doesn’t have bright shiny skin. If you can, also give it a poke with your finger. It shouldn’t be spongy.”

The class wanted it grilled, and Faith knew it would be delicious—the skin nice and crunchy.

She began to feel as though she was a sleepwalker, here but not really here, as she listened to and went through all the risotto-making steps, even adding her own favorite professional make-ahead tip—reserve about a cup and a half of the liquid, remove the risotto from the heat when al dente, spread it on a baking sheet or pan, cover, refrigerate for up to two hours, and then reheat it, adding the liquid and whatever else the recipe called for, in tonight’s case, the asparagus with grated cheese.

Time marched on at a crawl. The asparagi assumed a number of forms, then suddenly the hours fast-forwarded and in succession she was at the table; they were eating; it got dark outside; and now she was standing by the window in her room dressed in a black tee shirt, dark jeans, her hair tucked up into Tom’s navy Red Sox cap, waiting.

Then waiting some more.

After dinner, she’d found what she assumed was Jack’s newspaper in the lounge and had taken it up with her. There was nothing of note on the front page and inside a page was missing. It seemed to be the one that listed what was going on in various cities—including Florence? Could Jack and Sky be Jean-Luc’s coconspirators? Or perhaps the couple was simply planning to do something in Rome before their flight back to the States.

At two o’clock she decided everyone must surely be asleep, and besides, she couldn’t stand to wait any longer. All night she had tried to decide whether the feeling she was being watched was paranoia or real. Jean-Luc knew where Tom was, but he didn’t know Faith knew. He obviously knew the kidnappers had gotten in touch with her, since he was one of them and he may even have been amused at the story she concocted to explain his absence—whooping it up among illuminated manuscripts in Siena. The story that would reassure him that she was doing nothing. He also didn’t know she knew he was responsible. She was conscious of not behaving any differently with him, or anyone else, throughout the evening. The effort had been exhausting.

It wasn’t raining, but it was overcast, and as she slipped out the back door, Faith was grateful for the lack of illumination. Trying not to think of grass snakes, or especially vipers, she walked parallel to the path in the underbrush instead of on it to avoid being spotted. She had no idea where the old farm buildings might be, but they’d have to be well behind Jean-Luc’s house. She remembered coming down the path at what now seemed like years ago, but was only Monday, and not seeing any signs of them when they’d glimpsed the roof of the large villa.

Every once in a while she turned the flashlight on briefly to search for signs of an old drive. Shortly after she passed the villa, she found what appeared to have once been some kind of cart track. If it didn’t lead anywhere, she would return and keep going.

The zanzare, mosquitoes, now were out in full force, and Faith wished she’d thought to pack a stick of insect repellent back in Aleford. She also wished she’d thought to pack some kind of knockout drops that she could have added to Olivia’s grappa—tonight she’d been imbibing, several glasses of wine and then the after-dinner drink. Olivia’s trusty pistol would have been a big help, but entering her room, locating it if it was in fact still in the drawer, and leaving without drawing any attention to herself, would not have been possible save only in the worst sort of crime novels.

What kind of mosquitoes were these anyway? Same incredibly irritating whine, but they stung like bees and seemed able to penetrate even her shoes. She flashed the light about in an arc and was rewarded by what looked like a more traveled path, wider and with distinct tire tracks, ahead. When she got to it and turned, she saw it extended in two directions. One, judging from the angle, led to the village road, the other her destination?

What had been a slight breeze began to pick up, and soon an odor wafted in her direction. There may not be any swine there now, but she was approaching a place where they had unquestionably once wallowed. She passed a small brick structure with no roof and the walls caved in on two sides. Beyond it she could make out a cluster of slightly larger buildings. There was a banged-up Ape farm truck, pretty much a tiny cab and flatbed built around a three-wheeled scooter. Tom had been fascinated with the one the Rossis had and was no doubt intimately acquainted with the brand now, if this was what they had used to transport him here. Her spirits lifted. Unless another car had dropped the kidnappers off and left, this meant there couldn’t be more than two of them guarding her husband.

Faith circled the darkened buildings, trying to figure out where he was being kept. She was sure he was here. He had to be. One of the buildings was in better shape than the other, and she concentrated on that. It seemed to have several rooms, or animal stalls. There was no glass in the windows, if there ever had been, but at the rear, the windows were barred, presumably to prevent escape and performing the same function now. There was no choice. She had to take a chance.

She stood on tiptoe and peered in the nearest one. Flashing her light, she could make out a large blanket-covered lump on the dirt floor.

“Tom?” she whispered.

The lump moved slightly.

“Tom,” she said a bit louder and more urgently. His head popped up from the dirty blanket. At least it was protecting him from bites, although there might be predators other than mosquitoes lurking in its folds.

He stood up and came to the window. His hands were tied together in front of him. He looked rumpled, but not hurt.

“I knew you’d figure it out, darling,” he said softly.

Faith tried to kiss him, but the windowsill was too wide. She pushed her hand between the bars and stroked his face.

“You haven’t done anything? Said anything?” he said.

“No, but I can. It’s Jean-Luc, right?”

“Yes. I couldn’t sleep last night, so once it was light I went downstairs and was looking online to see whether I could figure out why Freddy had written the theater’s name when Luke tapped on the window behind me and motioned me out, pointing toward the hill. He looked extremely agitated. Like a jerk I didn’t stop to think he could see what I was doing, although I’m sure he’d figured it all out the moment Hattie dropped the pen. Maybe even before then—but anyway that we were with Freddy when he died.”

“Len Russo saw you running. Were you trying to get away?”

“No, but I was running. When I got outside, Luke said that he’d come to the house to get help. That he was walking the way he does early every morning and found a woman who seemed to be unconscious. He wanted to know if I knew any first aid.”

“Which you do.”

He’d even updated his CPR certification last winter. Ah Tom, the Good Samaritan. She didn’t have to hear the rest to know what happened.

“He said he’d go get the Rossis and phone for an ambulance. I said I’d see what I could do in the meantime. The next thing I knew I was trussed up and in a burlap sack on the back of one of those roller skate trucks. I saw it when we got here and they took the sack off.

“The guards who are here now have been hitting the bottle pretty heavily from what I could see through one of the cracks in the boards and they’re asleep. Unless we start shouting, they won’t hear us, but I’ll keep this short. They just want me—and you—on ice until sometime tomorrow. One of the guards speaks English, there are always two, but they change. He keeps telling me so long as we don’t make trouble, no one will get hurt. But, Faith, someone is going to get hurt—unless we stop them. They’re planning to assassinate the French minister of culture, François Dumond, at tomorrow’s matinee in the Teatro Verdi!”

Faith’s mind was whirling as she walked back to the house, not daring to shine the light after what he had told her. The guards didn’t know Tom could speak French, and with that plus a bit of Italian, he’d been able to figure out what was going on. Jean-Luc wasn’t French for a start, or rather didn’t consider himself French. He, and the others, were Corsican, members of the Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale Corsu, the National Liberation Front of Corsica, a terrorist group. Tom said they were dressed in camo with black hoods showing only their eyes. Faith remembered the fatal attacks by the group—deadly bombings in France and French property on Corsica. In the late 1990s the highest-ranking French official in Corsica had been assassinated, and now they had planned another high-profile one on Italian soil. That was what the initials F.D. meant in Freddy’s note: “François Dumond.” The Teatro Verdi was home to the Orchestra della Toscana and they were performing a special matinee program devoted to French composers with the visiting minister as guest of honor.

Seeing Tom at the Web site confirmed what Jean-Luc had suspected—that the Fairchilds, who might be CIA or just very nosey tourists—were on to the plot. He knew they hadn’t alerted anyone, since nothing had happened, and he intended to keep it that way until he and the others were long gone after the assassination. At least, Faith thought, she hadn’t been seeing things. Jean-Luc had obviously switched the notebooks at his villa after seeing her notice it. They must have been scouring it for information.

It was time to call Hope again. Her sister had friends in high places all over the globe. Then Faith herself had to go to Florence in the morning and find Sylvia with the great scarves in the straw market. How could she have neglected to buy gifts for her mother and mother-in-law? But when she announced this to the group at breakfast she wouldn’t add that she also planned to squeeze in a little culture. A concert.

She wouldn’t have pegged Olivia as a shopper, but as soon as Faith said that she hoped there would be time for a quick trip back to Florence to pick up some gifts, Olivia announced she wanted to go, too. That she had promised to bring her friends souvenirs of her trip. She seemed like such a solitary figure, no mention until now of friends—or family. The girl remained an enigma in so many ways, shedding her Goth persona and then adopting it again as the week had gone on. Faith never knew who would appear. Perhaps that was the intent.

“I should have picked up the mosaic frames I saw,” Terry said eagerly. “Plus I want to get more postcards.”

“You’ll be home before they get there and you’ve spent enough of my money,” Len said. He seemed more hungover than usual, and Faith wondered if he had a flask in his room. Even now, his speech was slurred.

“Your money? I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll make a stop at Prada, too,” Terry snapped back.

Francesca quickly intervened. “We can take the van and everyone who wants to come along is more than welcome.”

Faith could have kissed her. Plan B had been sneaking off on Gianni’s Vespa, trusting she could find her way back to the city.

The Nashes were off on one of their jaunts. Faith had passed them on her way into the dining room. Constance had looked particularly cheerful and called out, “We’re so eager to hear all about your husband’s visit to Siena. Such a treat!”

Roderick, as usual, had been mum.

Gianni dropped them in the city’s centro, arranging to pick them up again in two hours. The Rossis had suggested people use the afternoon to pack so they could enjoy the trip to Lago Trasimeno and the meal without feeling pressured. The group had agreed that a couple of hours in Florence would be enough.

“Although,” Hattie said, “can a body ever get enough of Florence? I think it was Oscar Wilde who said ‘when good Americans die, they go to Paris’ and I’d stick ‘Florence’ in there instead. For a start Italians are way nicer people than the French!”

No one contradicted her, and it was true, Faith thought, that Italians were incredibly kind and friendly, the exception being when she’d tried to buy stamps, but that could have been her fault. She never had gotten euros straight.

She had sat in the rear of the van, first on, last off, so she’d be able to speak to Gianni out of everyone else’s earshot.

“I have to stay longer in the city and won’t be here when you pick us up. I’ll get back on my own, don’t worry. If anyone asks where I am, you can say I ran into a friend from home who will bring me back later.”

Gianni did not look happy. “Are you sure . . . ?”

“I’m sure,” Faith said firmly. “And don’t worry about what Francesca will say.”

His brow cleared. “Okay, a più tardi.”

“Ciao, and see you later, too.”

The name Hope had given her literally opened doors, and after giving the condensed version of events to one person in the British consulate, Faith soon found herself sitting across from a distinguished-looking man in a beautiful, well-appointed room directly overlooking the Arno. She couldn’t help but notice framed lists of every consul since 1698 and before she got down to business, she thought she should express her sympathy at the consulate’s closing.

“Yes, pity,” he said. “Probably will become some fancy hotel. But you didn’t come here to offer your condolences, however deserved. I’ve been filled in, but frankly, it all sounded a bit hard to believe until Frederick Ives was mentioned.”

“That’s why I came here instead of going to my own consulate,” Faith said. “I don’t know what Freddy’s job was, but I was sure his name would mean something to the right people.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

So Faith did.

The most crucial thing now was to tighten the net and trap as many of the perpetrators as possible without endangering lives, especially the ministers’, both the cultural one and Tom. The hitch was keeping the farm buildings under surveillance without alerting the terrorists that their plan wasn’t secret anymore. The same with the theater.

“I’m sure no one saw me come in, but perhaps I should leave by a less conspicuous entrance,” Faith said. “I only have about forty minutes to get to the concert hall. I’ve located the street on the map. It’s a bit of a walk.”

The diplomat looked shocked. “You must be mad! You can’t go and risk putting yourself in danger. And what about your husband? If they see you there, they may—let’s be blunt—kill you both.”

Faith pulled out a huge pair of sunglasses she had picked up from a vendor on the way and a scarf, not one of Sylvia’s, alas—that would have to be another trip. She tied it around her head, a fashionable turban.

“I doubt anyone will recognize me. For one thing, they won’t expect me to be there, and people see what they think is going to be in front of them—the minister in this case. All their attention will be focused on him. My husband and I discussed the risks. Unfortunately, we have to take a gamble. We know that Jean-Luc is involved, possibly the leader, but we don’t know whether anyone else in the Cucina della Rossi class is. I can vouch for Gianni and Francesca, but during the week everyone else has raised certain suspicions. I’m the only one who can identify them if any of them are in the audience. They should all be back at the villa now.”

He gave in but insisted on providing her with an escort.

“One of our agents. And I think you’ll approve.”

He took Faith out, using a private elevator before opening a door that led to a lovely garden and then another door that he unlocked at its rear.

Olivia was waiting on the other side.

Sitting in the Teatro Verdi in the minutes before the concert was to start, the hush punctuated by discreet coughs and the rustling of programs, Faith reflected she was surprised, but not shocked. It all made sense—why Olivia popped up every place she was, that she had been Faith’s tomb rescuer, why she’d been with Freddy’s killer near the Duomo—trailing him—and why she would be armed. Faith resolved not to tell her or her superiors how easy it had been for Faith to find that out; she’d already decided she wanted to stay friends with her—a link to Freddy, and moreover the woman could cook!

They were in the front balcony, and of course a seat had opened up next to the one Hope had reserved for her sister. They had a perfect view of the orchestra seats and by looking up could see the other balconies as well. Olivia had morphed into an Italian schoolgirl with an extremely short skirt, Uggs, which seemed to be worn year-round here as in the USA, and a wig that transformed her hair into a blond cap cut. On the way to the theater, Olivia had tried to convince Faith that she should leave. Olivia knew everyone in the class, too, but Faith had been firm. She had to see it through. For Freddy . . .

She wished she knew the music on the program better. Unless the terrorists wanted to cause a riot, which was a possibility—they’d have chosen a moment when a shot would be obscured by some kind of crescendo. The minister was sitting in a box directly over and to the left of the stage. He couldn’t have made himself any more of a target unless he’d pinned a bull’s-eye to his chest.

The musicians finished tuning their instruments, there was dead silence, and the first piece began, Ravel’s “Pavane pour une infante défunte,” “Pavane for a Dead Princess”—heartrendingly beautiful and slow. No sudden loud drumrolls or cymbals to muffle the attack. The concert continued with Couperin and Satie—it was bridging many centuries. There was no intermission. Faith kept scanning the seats. She recognized no one except Jean-Luc, and he’d never glanced her way, his eyes fixed on the left of the stage. It was getting late. The concert was almost over. Could Tom have heard wrong? Or had they changed the plan?

The last piece was Debussy’s La Mer. Everyone seemed to be leaning toward the stage in anticipation. This was music Faith knew well. It was one of her father’s favorites—and it was tailor-made for the nefarious act the FLNC had planned. If they didn’t try a shot during the early staccato punctuations—ones mimicking the crashing of waves—the climax at the end would provide the opportunity. And it was her opportunity as well. She’d spotted her quarry. They had just entered, poised behind the last row above Jean-Luc. Insurance? Or was this the plan? That the shot would come from the shadows and the two slip away in the confusion? She saw a glint of metal. It could be a bracelet, or . . . ? No time to speculate.

She stood up as the harp played the opening chords.

“Call yourself an orchestra!” she shouted. “Why, my ten-year-old kid could do better on her kazoo! And as for this place! Hey, how about getting some comfortable seats since we have to listen to this terrible stuff!”

The hisses and boos started to drown her out. Ushers were closing in on her as she continued to scream, “Just ask those people. Over there. She pointed at Jean-Luc, who was scrambling up the aisle. He had certainly recognized her voice. “Ask Constance and Roderick Nashe! They know music.”

Admittedly she’d cribbed the idea from Cary Grant in North By Northwest, but it worked for her as it had worked for him. Jean-Luc and the Nashes were surrounded by a number of plainclothes police who had been unobtrusively occupying the rows around them and Faith had no doubt others were stationed as ushers in the halls as well.

It was time for her to leave, too. She pushed past the concertgoers in their row with Olivia behind her and Faith felt a woman pinch her arm, spitting out a single word, “Americana!”

Sorry to have had to cast aspersions on her native land, Faith nevertheless felt it was worth it. All three had been captured.

Outside on the narrow street, Faith felt herself start to collapse. It was almost over. Olivia was on her phone.

“Tom? Have you heard about Tom!”

“Your husband is safe and sound. He’s being supplied with some panforte from Siena and dropped off at the Rossis’. His ‘friend’ drove him back.”

There was nothing to do save hug the girl very hard—and Olivia hugged her hard back.

Slightly delirious from the wine, and even more the food—the banquet’s Il Primo pasta: cannelioni stuffed with prosciutto cotto and fresh ricotta—Faith excused herself to freshen up. Their table overlooked the lake and they had been sitting, watching the surrounding towns disappear in the dusk. Stars above, mirrored in the surface of the lago, and spots of light from the shore seemed to enclose the group in a celestial cocoon. Of course some of their number were missing.

Olivia had sat the Rossis down with Tom and Faith upon their return and given an abbreviated version of events. It had been no accident that Olivia had signed up for Cucina della Rossi. She’d been selected for her food expertise. Both the Nashes and Jean-Luc were on a watch list, and recent activity picked up from the Internet suggested something big was being planned. Freddy’s death had confirmed it. He was on to them. Tom was able to identify one of his guards from photos taken when the police raided the farm building as the man he saw both in the Piazza Farnese and by the Duomo in Florence.

The Rossis were speechless and Olivia promised that someone would be out to talk with them further, but that they were under no suspicion themselves. They just happened to have an extremely bad neighbor. The plot was many years in the making, giving Jean-Luc, with his Napoleonic desk—Faith chided herself for missing that obvious clue—time to insinuate himself into the local scene. Likewise, the Nashes, also Corsicans, had done so in Britain, easy, as both had gone to school there. Faith learned that what she had overheard them speak in Montepulciano was not their own “pet language” but Corsu, the Corsican language. All those independent side trips had been to rendezvous with the other terrorists, particularly Jean-Luc. What had been a shock, an enormous shock, was that Roderick, the archetypal Wodehouse doddering clubman, was anything but—he had been the brains of the operation and, under his real name, was on Interpol’s most wanted list!

No one seemed to be missing the Nashes much. Before the group left for the farewell banquet, Francesca had convincingly explained that the couple sent regrets but had to leave early, as their travel plans had changed. Which was true. Likewise, Jean-Luc sent his regrets. Faith was sure he had many, but doubted they were for anything other than his thwarted plot and the loss of his magnificent villa.

The stall in the bathroom was occupied. Faith was about to leave and wait outside the door when she realized that whoever was using it was probably not engaged in the task for which it was designed; rather the woman inside was crying her heart out.

“Excuse me.” No, wait she knew this. “Scusi.” Now for the “Are you all right” part. Before she could put the phrase together, a trembling voice said, “Is that you, Faith?”

“Yes—Terry?”

The door opened; Terry Russo emerged, clutching a wad of toilet tissue that she had been using to stem the tide of her tears. Her mascara had run. She looked like the band Kiss on a rainy day. Given the frequency of this sort of emotional outpouring—at least on this trip—the woman really should be investing in waterproof makeup, Faith reflected.

“I don’t know what to do. You have everything so together. You and Tom. I thought we did, but—oh, Faith, have you ever thought your husband could do something so bad you couldn’t stay with him!”

She wasn’t crying out loud now, but the tears kept streaming down her cheeks, puddling in her neck, the toilet paper a sodden mess and useless. Faith took a packet of tissues from her purse and handed it to her.

“We’ve had our ups and downs—some pretty major ones, but I don’t know. I guess I’d trust he had a reason, and it had better be a pretty darn good one.”

That brought a small smile.

“We’re never going to see each other again. That’s the way it is on trips, so I can tell you, and besides you’re kind of like a priest yourself, being married to one.”

Faith had never thought of it this way, and didn’t really want to, but she did want to hear what had happened to change the Russos’ course from happily ever after to Splitsville.

“A week before we were due to leave, the doorbell rang and it was a young man—early thirties, nice-looking. He asked for Len. It was a Saturday afternoon and he was in the backyard putting the tomatoes in.”

Faith nodded. Jersey tomatoes were the best.

“I took the guy back and he announces that Len is his dad. Long story short, when Len was eighteen he got his girlfriend pregnant. They were class couple, wouldn’t you know. He wanted to marry her, but she didn’t want to, but she did want to have the baby. Her family was moving to Florida and her parents must have thought it was fine. Who knows? Anyway, Len kind of forgot about the whole thing. At least that’s what he told me. How can I ever trust him again? And how could he forget that he had a kid, for gawd’s sakes!”

Her voice was shrill.

First things first. “Why did his son look him up after all that time? What did he want?”

“Nothing. He just found out himself. The man he thought was his father all these years told him after his mother died from cancer. He said he didn’t want Len as a father—he had one, as far as he was concerned—but he was curious and wanted to fill in the blanks on his health history. Like he has asthma. Len does, too.”

Which, Faith realized, was why the man hadn’t looked well at times. All the acacia pollen and everything else floating in the Tuscan air.

Terry was repairing her makeup. A good sign.

“You’ve been married thirty years. Do you want to be married to him for thirty more? Do you love him, Terry?”

The woman smiled. “As Cher said in Moonstruck, ‘Aw, Ma, I love him awful.’ Yeah, Faith, I love him awful.”

“Okay, so let’s go have the next course. And, Terry, he’s a guy. I have no doubt he was totally able to put the whole thing out of his mind once a couple of years had gone by—maybe sooner.”

“Like the moment she crossed the Jersey line with her family on her way to Florida.”

When Faith and Terry returned to the table, the waiter was pouring a different wine for the next course and there was a lull in the conversation. Len pulled the chair out for his wife, but remained standing himself. Once he’d seen that all the glasses had been replenished, he said, “I want to propose a toast. Please lift your glasses.” He turned toward the Rossis, who were sitting together at the head of the table.

“To Francesca and Gianni for one of the best weeks of my life. I wish you much success and, paisan, we’ll be back.”

“Hear hear,” Jack said, and everyone drank. Olivia wasn’t on duty anymore and Faith was amused to see her cheeks lose their white pallor as the meal wore on.

Len didn’t sit down. He put one hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Now some of you know this is our thirtieth wedding anniversary. This toast is for my wife, Theresa, for putting up with me all these years. I hope she’ll stick around for the rest of them.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small box, which he put in front of her. “Because I’d marry you all over again,” he said—and Faith could hear the catch in his throat before he was able to say the rest—“and because I hope it’s true for you, too.”

Jewelry, definitely jewelry. Terry opened the box, stood up, and threw her arms around her husband.

“Oh, honey, an eternity ring! You shouldn’t have, but I’m awfully glad you did!”

And awfully in love.

“And was this completely your own idea, Reverend Fairchild?”

Tom and Faith were sitting on the terrace of the Sky Lounge Bar on top of the Hotel Continentale’s medieval Consorti tower. The Duomo and Palazzo Vecchio were so close, it almost seemed as if they could reach out and touch the bricks. This morning, instead of whisking them off to their train, the Rossis had dropped them off at the luxury hotel.

“Yes it was, Mrs. Fairchild. I wrote to Francesca as soon as I knew for sure we were coming and I even found this place online. The flight home is tomorrow, not today.”

“And this, too?” Faith held out her wrist, admiring the Italian Fope rose gold mesh bracelet Tom had given her a few minutes ago after the bartender had brought them two flutes of cold Prosecco. She might never go back to champagne after this Prosecco-drenched trip.

“I have to admit Hope helped on that one.”

It was good to have a sister—in more ways than one. Faith couldn’t see the consulate from where they were, but it was just down the street. She raised her glass.

“To Hope.”

“Cin-cin,” Tom said as they clinked.

From an open window nearby they could hear the familiar strains of the Stones singing, “This could be the last time.”

Tom took his wife’s hand. “It almost was.” He kissed her hard.

“To us,” she said a moment later. “Always, to us, my love.”





CODA





“It seems like a very long time ago,” Tom Fairchild said to his wife, Faith.

“It was.”

She closed the small travel journal she’d been reading parts aloud from and stood up. They’d been sitting on the deck of their cottage in Maine, watching their family kayak in the cove. Everyone had come for the Fourth of July. Faith had found the notebook in one of the boxes she had brought up to sort through this summer. There had never seemed to be time before, but now they had it in abundance.

“You were a little in love with Freddy,” Tom said.

Faith did not disagree but countered with, “And you with Sky, that woman from California.”

He smiled. “Very lovely—and very troubled. I can tell you now. They were married, but to other people. She was trying to decide whether to leave her husband. Jack, that was his name, right?”

Faith nodded. This was the sort of thing she remembered. She sat back down.

“Anyway, Jack wanted to leave his wife. He’d run into a neighbor in Florence that day we all went to the big market and he’d realized he couldn’t live like that. I guess he’d had to duck into an alley or something.”

Or something, Faith said to herself. She remembered this, too.

“She wrote to me that winter care of the church to thank me for listening. She was leaving her husband, and Jack was leaving his wife, but they weren’t rushing into anything. They wanted to be sure they loved each other and it wasn’t just the excitement of an affair.”

“Could never understand that notion,” Faith said. “It seems to me you’d be so nervous covering things up that any excitement wouldn’t be worth it. All those lies to keep straight, schedules to mesh. Which also reminds me. That’s where you bought me the first Fope bracelet—at the jewelers on the Ponte Vecchio.” Tom had added two more since then.

“I have very good taste,” Tom said.

Faith was still back in the past. “No one was who they seemed at first—except us and the Rossis. All kinds of masks. The terrorists of course. The Nashes weren’t even British. I totally missed that one. Even that young man the Rossis hired to be Francesca’s assistant turned out not to be who he seemed in the beginning. The Russos, Sky, Jack—everybody was hiding something. And Olivia, big-time. What do you think ever happened to her? No way to find out.”

Faith had hoped to stay in touch with the young woman for many reasons, but Olivia—if that was her name—had immediately vanished into the black hole that was Whitehall and the MI6.

“And don’t forget those two Southern ladies.” Tom started to laugh, and Faith joined him.

Two years after their return from the trip, a cookbook, lavishly illustrated with color photos, had arrived in the mail at the parsonage with Hattie Culver listed as the author. The title was Buon Giorno, Y’All: A Southern Chef Cooks Italian. Sally Culver was listed as her assistant in the acknowledgments. There was no note. Faith had immediately called Francesca, who had received one, too. “I would have helped them! They didn’t have to be so sneaky. They must have gone all over Italy doing the same thing from what I can tell from the recipes,” she’d said. Cucina della Rossi was not in the acknowledgments, and yes it had been sneaky, maybe worse. But the Rossis had let it go. The cucina had been a huge success, and now Gianni and Francesca’s children were running it. The Rossis had bought Jean-Luc’s villa, expanding their vineyards, olive groves, and the school. It was year-round now, functioning in the winter months also as a language program.

Yes, it had all been a long time ago.

“Happy, darling?” Tom asked.

“Very,” Faith said.

Far from the Tuscan hills, they sat hand in hand quietly watching the tide go out—and they’d watch it come back in the morning when they woke up.





Author’s Note





Traveling is the ruin of all happiness! There’s no looking at a building here after seeing Italy.

—Fanny Burney, Cecilia (1782)

I have been a traveler all my life, both metaphorically and physically. The first journey of magnitude that I remember is driving in our station wagon from West Orange, New Jersey, to Readfield, Maine, just outside of Augusta the summer I turned four. We had rented Alberta Jackson’s house, found for us by family friends, for a week. It was near a pond encircled by birch groves. Mrs. Jackson had white hair and said, “Ayuh.” My younger sister was just learning to walk; my older brother learning to canoe with my father. My mother cooked on a woodstove and I saw my first movie, Disney’s Alice in Wonderland. Travel had opened up all sorts of vistas, and I was hooked.

Three years later we went to Norway to visit my mother’s family, crossing the ocean on the Norwegian American Line’s Oslofjord in the early fall (always one to march to a different drummer, not unlike the women I have celebrated in all my books, Mom thought we’d learn more on the trip than in school, so we started late that year). It was hurricane season, and although in third class, my brother, sister, and I had the run of the ship from first class on down. All the adults were seasick. We, of course, were just fine—swam in the saltwater pool, had what still seem like Lucullan feasts at the smörgåsbords, and made friends with the crew. The trip took ten days. At the end of this kind of voyage you knew you had truly traveled somewhere.

In 1967 my sister and I worked outside London as au pairs for several months. Sergeant Pepper Summer we call it still. This time we crossed the ocean in a propjet, a charter. It was the first of a number of cheap flights I took in the days when air travel was a novelty, and no one would have dreamed of wearing jeans on a flight. For this one, I wore my little navy blue Jackie Kennedy suit with the Mandarin collar, but left my pillbox hat at home. I seem to recall that the flight took twelve hours. Could that be? It was a college charter, and besides Wellesley, the rest of the passengers were all guys from Cornell, so we didn’t mind.

And then there was my honeymoon, or as my friend Julie called it, the “Moonyhon,” since it was in July and we had been married in December. Oh that Moonyhon flight! Heaven! Air France, not a no-name charter—and we were going to the country itself! The dinner served tasted exquisite, as did the complimentary champagne.

I did not grow up in a gourmet environment. My mother was an artist, and feeding a family of five was somewhat of a chore, especially as she herself had grown up on a diet mostly of fish and boiled veggies, especially potatoes. She stuck to the tried and true with an occasional mad fling at a recipe from the book Casserole Cookery, a source of that northern New Jersey classic dinner-party staple—Green Bean and Mushroom Soup Casserole with Durkee fried onions sprinkled on top. One day someone told her about adding La Choy water chestnuts, and that was about as far as she ventured. When my parents went out, we thought the Swanson TV dinners Mom left for us were an exotic treat. Those and Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks. But I stray.

I came to my love of cooking because of my husband, who still teases me about the first time he opened the fridge in my apartment and found only a container of OJ and a jar of herring (we got a full lunch at the place where I was then teaching, and you could tell all the single faculty, since we were the ones chowing down, making it the main meal of the day). Anyway, changing to the train for Lyon in Paris on our honeymoon that July we stopped to eat and I had my Julia Child moment, only it was an even simpler dish—omelette aux fines herbes with pommes frites and a salade verte. I had never tasted anything so perfect—the omelette with herbs, those crispy frites, so very unhealthy twice-fried in beef tallow, and the vinaigrette on that fresh frisée. There was much, much more to come. After several weeks with our friends in Lyon and then on to Provence, I realized if you wanted to eat that way you had to cook. I’ve never looked back. Living in France in the 1980s only made things worse—or rather much, much better.

Now back to this book. The Body in the Vestibule was a love letter to France, The Body in the Fjord to Norway, The Body in the Big Apple and The Body in the Boudoir to Manhattan, all the Sanpere books to Penobscot Bay in Maine, the Aleford books to the place where I’ve spent my life as a wife and mother in New England. Now The Body in the Piazza is a lettera d’amore to Italy and specifically the trip I took with my friend and fellow writer Valerie Wolzien. We left husbands and hearths, heading first to Rome, where neither of us, despite many travels, had ever been. We felt much like Faith—deliriously besotted. And then it was on to Tuscany. We had both spent time there, but not with the kind of freedom having no schedule provides. As E. M. Forster—and Freddy Ives—advised, “The point of travel is to get lost,” so we wandered. Especially in markets. Before we left the United States, we were extremely fortunate to happen upon and book “The Food Lovers Walking Tour” in Florence with Claire Hennessy, assistant extraordinaire to the food writer and chef Faith Willinger. It was a day, and food, to remember always. Claire introduced us to the Baronis among other people and places, many appearing in these pages. I cannot recommend this tour, and this young woman, highly enough—http://www.faithwillinger.com. Claire also serves as a travel consultant (http://www.boutiqueflorence.com).

And so it goes. My husband and I are marking a milestone traveling to Ireland this year, and I’ll be returning with Valerie to Italy. We need to sit on more rooftop terraces drinking Prosecco and I’m down to the last drop of the amazing balsamic vinegar I bought at the Mercato Centrale.

The Elizabeth Hardwick quote from Sleepless Nights at the opening of this book is one I think about a great deal. For me, even going on a trip to New York City, especially alone, for a day or two grants a kind of liberating anonymity. I don’t exist. And then there is its corollary—I could be anyone. Oddly enough it is at times like this when we let go that we are most ourselves.

Finally, besides being a love letter to Italy and the Italians, this is an epistle addressed to two groups of people. The first is my characters, led by Faith Fairchild, who while not Katherine Hall Page, is very close to her, and I’m glad Faith’s anniversary trip ended so happily. Jewelry is important. The wonderful mystery writer William Tapply, sadly gone from us, once wrote the following moving words about his character, lawyer Brady Coyne:

He has neither the cynical world view of some private eyes nor the excessive honor of others. He is, in other words, like you, gentle reader, and he’s very much like me. I’d rather have you identify with him than admire him. He’s not bigger than life. He’s just about life-sized.

I hope the same is true for Faith Sibley Fairchild.

The other group that has become similarly dear over these twenty-five years are you, my readers, many of whom have become friends outright and all of whom have become friends in my heart. I cannot thank you enough.





EXCERPTS FROM


Have Faith

in Your Kitchen



By Faith Sibley Fairchild

with Katherine Hall Page





Spaghetti alla Foriana


1/2 cup toasted pignoli (pine nuts)

1 pound spaghetti

2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

4 large cloves of garlic, minced

4 anchovy fillets, rinsed and patted dry

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

1/2 cup golden raisins

Pinch of red pepper flakes

Pinch of freshly ground black pepper

2–3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley



To toast pignoli, place them in a frying pan without oil or butter and sauté over low heat, watching very carefully, as they burn easily. As soon as they begin to take on color, remove them from the heat and set aside.

Start the water for the spaghetti and when it boils, add the spaghetti so it will be al dente by the time you have made the sauce. Most brands (Faith likes Barilla and DeCecco) take roughly 8 minutes.

Heat the oil in a large skillet over low heat. Add the garlic and the anchovies. Stir to prevent the garlic from burning and to dissolve the anchovies. As soon as the anchovies have dissolved, add the nuts, raisins, pepper flakes, and ground pepper.

Simmer the sauce for 4 to 5 minutes.

Drain the pasta and add to the sauce along with 1 tablespoon of parsley. Mix well to coat the pasta and serve. Alternatively, you may place a portion of pasta on each heated plate and spoon the sauce on top.

Sprinkle the remaining parsley on each serving.

As always, add more garlic and/or anchovies to taste. The interesting thing about this dish is that the anchovy taste is very subtle and most people will not even identify it until you tell them! It’s wonderfully fast—something to serve unexpected guests with a salad of fresh sliced tomatoes or just mixed greens.

Serves four generously.

This is the first dish Katherine’s husband, Alan, cooked for her when they were courting!





Pici with Tuscan Ragu


For the pasta:

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups semolina flour

1–1 1/4 cups tepid water



Combine the flours in a large mixing bowl. Pour the mixture out onto a clean flat surface. Using your hands, mound the flour and make a well in the center. It will look like a somewhat flat volcano. Add the water in the center of the well, a little at a time, incorporating the flour into it until you have a soft, smooth dough. You are bringing the flour from the perimeter into the center, and using your hands works best, although some cooks prefer to use a fork. You may need more or less water, depending on the humidity in your kitchen. Knead the dough for about 8 minutes until it is elastic and even smoother. Cover and let it rest for 30 minutes.

When the dough has rested, break off a piece about the size of a walnut and think back to when you were a kid in art class and made “snakes” by rolling clay on a desktop. Pici are very long strands. Try to make them as thin and uniform as possible. Place each finished strand on a sheet tray that has been dusted with semolina flour. Each strand should be roughly as long as the tray. Cover the pasta with a clean dish towel until you are ready to cook, after making the sauce.

Making pici is a fun group activity.



For the sauce:

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, diced

1 carrot, diced

1 celery stalk, diced

2 cups fresh tomatoes, diced, or canned chopped plum tomatoes

1/2 cup dry red wine

Pinch of salt



For the combination of onion, carrot, and celery or soffritto—mirepoix in French—sautéed in oil, the proportion is twice as much diced onion as celery and carrot. Sauté the vegetables in the olive oil until they are softened and the onion has taken on a bit of color. Add the tomatoes, wine, and pinch of salt. Stir, cover, and simmer for 45 to 60 minutes.

For a meat ragu, add approximately 6 ounces of one of the following: ground pork, beef, veal, chopped Italian sausage, or diced pancetta before adding the tomatoes, wine, and salt, but after sautéing the vegetables. When the meat has browned, add the rest of the ingredients.

You may also add chopped parsley, basil, or oregano to the sauce with the salt. Katherine’s sister Anne, who lived in Italy, always adds a teaspoon of sugar to her ragus, or sughi—sauces—as they are known in Florence, where she stayed.

Serves four to six.





Fresh Spinach Sautéed with Garlic


2 1/2 pounds fresh young spinach leaves

2–3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

3 cloves garlic, minced

Pinch of salt

Pinch of freshly ground pepper

Lemon (optional)



Wash the spinach leaves well and cut off any stems remaining. Loosely shake them dry in a colander or use a salad spinner. Leave some water on the leaves, which acts to steam them.

Heat the oil in a large skillet or saucepan over medium heat and sauté the garlic for about a minute until golden. Be careful not to brown it. Overcooking gives garlic a bitter taste.

Add the spinach, salt, and pepper. Toss it with the garlic, turn the heat down to simmer, and cover. It will cook very quickly, roughly 2 minutes. Uncover, turn the heat to high, and toss once. Continue to sauté for about 1 minute. The spinach will look wilted.

Transfer to a heated bowl, or plates, and serve immediately, adding a squeeze of lemon if you wish.

Serves four to six.

This is a deceptively simple dish that showcases the freshness of the ingredient. Adjust the garlic—more or less—to your taste. On some occasions Faith adds toasted pignoli just before serving. Even spinach haters love this dish, and it is a heart-wise change from the traditional creamed spinach served with steak in the USA (tasty as that is!).





Panna Cotta


3 cups heavy cream or 1 cup whole milk plus 2 cups heavy cream, divided

1 envelope unflavored gelatin (approx. 1 tablespoon)

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon almond extract



Put 1 cup of the cream in a saucepan and sprinkle the gelatin on top. Let sit 3 minutes to soften the gelatin. Whisk and heat the mixture over low heat until the gelatin dissolves. Add the rest of the ingredients, stir, and heat over medium heat until the sugar dissolves, about 8 to 10 minutes. Do not boil.

Pour through a sieve into a pitcher (easier to fill the ramekins this way) and then fill 6 ramekins that you have placed on a tray. Cover with a sheet of plastic wrap and refrigerate for 5 hours or overnight. You can keep the panna cotta refrigerated for up to two days. To unmold, run a sharp knife around the edge of the ramekin and dip it in a flat pan of boiling water very briefly. If you overestimate and the panna cotta looks runny, just put the ramekin back in the fridge to firm up again. Invert the ramekin over a small plate and serve. You may also pour all the panna cotta into a bowl, cover, and refrigerate before scooping portions out into dessert bowls or martinilike cocktail glasses—very chic.

Serves six.

Garnish panna cotta with fruit, especially summer fruits, which can also be made into a coulis to drizzle over and around it. Fresh strawberries with a few drops of balsamic vinegar, honey, lemon zest, ground pistachios, and ginger flakes are all delicious toppings as well. Using this basic recipe, you may try coffee, hazelnut extract, chocolate, even green and other teas as flavoring. For the cardamom version mentioned in the text, use 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract and 1 teaspoon ground cardamom.





Yogurt Panna Cotta


1 1/2 cups heavy cream

1 envelope unflavored gelatin (approx. 1 tablespoon)

2 cups Greek-style yogurt such as Fage Total

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract



Follow the directions above. The yogurt gives the panna cotta a nice slightly sharp taste, and also a slightly less creamy consistency, which makes it quite special—lovely with fruit and/or honey.

This makes a large amount. You will need 8 ramekins.

Serves eight.





Biscotti


1/2 cup unsalted butter at room temperature

1 1/2 cups sugar

3 large eggs

1/4 cup heavy cream

1/4 teaspoon anise oil

1 teaspoon ground anise seed (use a mortar and pestle)

3 cups flour

1 tablespoon baking powder



Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

In a standing mixer, or using a hand mixer, cream the butter and sugar together. Add the eggs one at a time and mix. Add the cream, anise oil, and anise seed, mixing again. Sift the flour and baking powder together and add to the batter. Mix until you have a firm dough.

Divide the dough in half and form two logs approximately 1 inch by 2 1/2 inches on a floured surface. You may need to add more flour if the dough seems too sticky. Place each log on an ungreased baking sheet, or use a Silpat.

Bake for approximately 40 minutes, checking after 30 minutes. The logs will puff up and should be golden brown.

Remove from the oven and while still warm, slice each log diagonally in 1/4-inch slices. Place the slices back on the sheets and bake for an additional 5 minutes on each side so they brown evenly. Since each oven bakes slightly differently, check to make sure they don’t get too brown. Remove and cool on wire racks. Store in airtight containers for up to a week.

Makes three dozen.

Like the pici, biscotti are something people think must be very hard to make. They are not. Instead of anise, add 1/2 teaspoon vanilla and 1/2 cup ground nuts. Lemon zest and nuts are also a nice combination. And of course biscotti and chocolate are a natural pairing. Dip one end in melted white, dark, or milk chocolate and refrigerate on a baking sheet until the chocolate is set. Before that, you may also sprinkle the warm chocolate with ground pistachio nuts or colored sugars for the holidays (you can make the cookies ahead before dipping). Faith makes four logs at the holidays to cut for smaller cookies to serve as part of a holiday buffet or to give with other varieties as gifts.





Acknowledgments





Many thanks to my HC publicist Danielle Bartlett, my friend Emilio Bizzi, Dr. Robert DeMartino for medical expertise, photographer Jean Fogelberg, my agent Faith Hamlin, guide Claire Hennessy in Florence, my editor Katherine Nintzel, HC director of library marketing Virginia Stanley, and the staff of the Hotel Residenza Farnese Roma in Rome (especially Paolo).

Authors often thank family members, and although that doesn’t seem a sufficient enough word for the gratitude I feel for all you do for me—and for your love—here it is: a world of thanks to my husband, Alan, and my son, Nicholas.

I have taken some liberties with actual locations and a few descriptions, but not many.