The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 3





Freddy’s eyes were closed. He was clutching at his chest, fumbling for the knife. The blood from the wound was beginning to seep onto his dark shirt.

“Freddy, no! Don’t try to pull it out!” Faith screamed. His hand dropped to his side and his eyelids fluttered open. “We’re getting help! Just hold on!” Dimly aware that Tom had his phone out, she moved nearer and gently cradled Freddy’s head in her lap, Tom knelt down beside Faith. “I’ve called one-one-two,” he said. “The operator spoke English, thank God. I told her a man had been attacked and was seriously injured. She said help would come immediately.”

The Italian equivalent of 911 is 112, and it was one of the things both Fairchilds had learned before the trip. Tom was spreading his jacket over Freddy—surely in shock—and Faith quickly added the cardigan she was wearing.

“Faith, Tom,” Freddy whispered.

“Don’t try to talk,” Tom said. He took Freddy’s hand.

Freddy shook his head. “Too late. Stupid. Should have known.” He was groping inside his jacket with his other hand.

“My pen.” The words were barely audible. With obvious effort, he repeated them. “My pen.”

Tom reached into one of the inside pockets and pulled out a fountain pen. “Look for his notebook, Tom,” Faith said. “He must want us to write down what he’s saying.”

A name? Did he know who had attacked him? she wondered.

The previously empty piazza was rapidly filling up with people, but it felt as if the three of them were completely alone on a stage.

“His notebook’s not here,” Tom said. “His wallet and anything else he was carrying are gone, too. Just the pen.”

Freddy brought his hand up and pushed at the pen. “You have to stop them. They’re going to ki . . .” He slumped back, exhausted by the effort. “Pen,” he said once more, and then all was silent save the welcome sound of the police—the raucous two-note wails Faith had noted until this moment with mild annoyance. Now they sounded like the horn of Gabriel.

Guards from the French embassy were streaming out from the entrance on the piazza, joining the polizia who were jumping from vehicles ranging from motorcycles to Lancias. The French force had what looked like small machine guns at the ready; the Italians were holding pistols. It was terrifying. Faith assumed that Tom’s call must have been followed by so many others that the police decided to send a battalion. The ambulance arrived, and one of the Italian police shouted into a bullhorn. The onlookers melted back against the perimeter. Faith and Tom didn’t move.

“Non parlo l’italiano,” Tom said loudly. “Sono un americano.”

The EMTs rushed to Freddy and the Fairchilds moved out of the way. One of the policemen walked over to them after speaking to two others from the force that was rapidly encircling the area. He did not look friendly. He did look in charge “Your names?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Fairchild. We are in Rome on vacation. The injured man is Frederick Ives, British. A friend of ours,” Tom said.

They were loading Freddy into the back of the ambulance. Faith cried, “Where are you taking him? We need to go, too!”

The policeman didn’t pay the slightest attention to her request and the vehicle sped off. Suddenly she felt the full weight of being in a foreign country. “We have to be with our friend! Please!”

He ignored her again. “Your address here in Rome?”

Tom gave him the information and answered the questions that followed as well. Home address in the United States, arrival and departure dates. Occupations. The inspector appeared to be filling out a form. Faith had heard about Italian bureaucracy—one friend described the lengths she had had to go through simply to buy postage stamps—but this was intolerable. Next it would be mother’s maiden name. But it wasn’t.

“Which of you was holding the knife?”

A nightmare. A complete nightmare!

Tom asked, his tone puzzled, “Do you mean did we touch the knife?”

“Did you touch the knife?”

Was the first question a trick? Could the man possibly think they had attacked Freddy? Faith wondered. That they were somehow a team of deadly U.S. crooks who were expanding their turf to Rome?

“No, neither of us touched the knife. We did not want to do any further injury to Mr. Ives.”

“Then who did?”

Tom sighed and described the attack, finishing with the statement: “His wallet is gone as well as any other papers like his passport that he may have been carrying.”

Their interrogator raised one eyebrow. “You seem to know the contents of Mr. Frederick Ives’s pockets well, Mr. Fairchild. While sadly Rome suffers from pickpockets, purse snatchers, and other forms of petty crime, violent crime of this sort associated with a robbery is uncommon here.”

His somewhat smug expression conveyed his opinion that brutal muggings were to be found on every street corner in the United States. He shrugged. “But there are always hotheads who might carry a knife like this as a persuader and then get carried away. Tell me, did your friend use drugs often?”

“I’m sure he didn’t use them at all!” Faith exclaimed. “And we need to go to him pronto!” She wasn’t sure that was the correct word. It was how Italians answered the phone, but she hoped her tone would convey her urgency.

“Sì.” The inspector walked away from them and pulled out his mobile. He listened, said something, and motioned to the same two men he’d spoken to earlier, one of whom promptly tossed the cigarette he had been smoking onto the cobblestones. After a brief conversation, the inspector returned alone to the Fairchilds.

“I am sorry. Your friend is dead.”

Tom tightened the arm he had around Faith’s shoulder.

“Are you sure?” she said.

He nodded. The fact of death had softened his expression.

Out of the corner of her eye, Faith could see the police unwinding crime scene tape, kicking the still smoldering cigarette butt out of the area.

And then she started to sob.

It was a Rome not many tourists get to know—the Serious Crime Squad headquarters. The Fairchilds were offered coffee. Tom took it; Faith knew it would choke her. Hours passed, most of them spent waiting to tell their story, and whatever they knew of Freddy’s, to what seemed like an endless stream of officials. Tom was quizzed more closely than Faith. He had seen enough of the assailant’s face to provide a good likeness using an Identi-Kit. To Faith the only unusual features were thick dark eyebrows that stretched across his forehead in a straight line, as if drawn with a marker. But she was able to add that his black sneakers were Converse—she’d noted the blue All Star logo when he ran off—and that he’d also been wearing black Diesel jeans with a short black Ferragamo leather jacket. Unlike the United States, where this sort of information had met with extreme doubt in Faith’s past police investigations—who noticed things like this?—the police in Rome seemed to expect that a woman of taste would have instantly recognized such labels.

Finally, they were told they were free to go but not before yet another individual told them how rare this sort of robbery gone wrong was in Italy. And especially in that part of Rome. “Now if it had been around the train station at that time . . .” several people had told them, shaking a verbal finger, as if Freddy had somehow become an affront to the city by being murdered in a good part of town.

A police car drove them back to the hotel, dropped them at the entrance, and sped off, almost grazing the sides of the narrow street. They rang the bell next to the ancient door, locked for the night, although little was left of its hours now. When there was no answer, Faith lifted the heavy iron knocker, feeling Shakespearean and wishing with all her heart she could, in effect, “Wake Duncan with thy knocking!”

Paolo answered, pulling back the door and securing it to the wall. His eyes were red. He’d obviously heard the news.

“Signore Ives. I cannot believe it. None of us can. Come in, come in.” He took Faith’s hand and pulled her into the lobby. “Go to your room and I will bring you some camomilla. Could you eat anything? A little pane? Or better, some brodo?”

She shook her head. He started to tear up, as he had apparently done before. “He has been coming here for many years. A friend to us all. I’ll bring the camomilla. You need to have something and then sleep if you can. You must stay here until you feel you can travel. I will call Francesca.”

But what Faith wanted most was to leave Rome. It would pass. It would have to. Freddy would be upset to know he’d put them off his beloved Città Eterna for long. As she thought of his reaction, she told herself she had to stop thinking of him as if he was alive and not just off temporarily on a journey.

“The train isn’t until the afternoon. If we could stay in our room until then . . . ,” Faith said.

“But of course.” Paolo looked a bit hurt. As if she needed to ask was written all over his face. Gravely solicitous, he walked them to the elevator.

“Mr. Ives told us he was checking out,” she said. The thought that had been plaguing her all night returned full force. Freddy said he was leaving early. Why had he stayed—and where?

“He did, even though he had the room for another week. He had paid in advance, so I told him it would be here if he changed his mind.”

The fatigue and shock of the night dropped from Faith so abruptly that for a moment she was startled. Her mind began to race.

“So there isn’t anyone there now? Freddy wanted us to see it and said we were to ask you to let us in. That it was the finest room in the hotel, with some interesting features.”

Paolo nodded. If he thought her sudden request odd, he gave no indication. Her husband, however, was looking at her with an expression she knew all too well. “Stay out of it, Faith” could have been written in a comic strip balloon coming from his mouth.

“I will bring the key with the tea.” Paolo bowed slightly as the elevator doors opened.

“Faith . . . ,” Tom began as soon as they were in their room.

“You said his pockets were empty and so did the police. I just want to find his notebook. Maybe he left it in his room. I noticed at the restaurant that it had one of those alphabetical address sections in the back. The only address we have is a post office box in London, and something tells me the same is true on the hotel register, especially as he has been coming here so long. He probably doesn’t even have to sign in at all. There may be some next of kin and it’s only decent we find them. They can’t ship a body to a post office box.”

“The British embassy was sending someone and will take care of all that. You heard the inspector. I know how you feel. It’s rare to meet someone and become such instant close friends, especially at our age, but we only knew Freddy briefly, and our part in both his life and death is over.”

There was a knock on the door and Paolo entered with a tray. He set it down and told them he had instructed the staff not to disturb them. He handed Faith the key to Freddy’s room as well and left.

Faith sipped the hot tea. Chamomile blossoms were the Italian answer to Sominex, or for that matter Prozac as well. A cure for sleeplessness, anxiety, and all sorts of other ills. Paolo had added honey, and soon the sweet liquid was making her both drowsy and calmer. Tom was already lying down. She joined him, resolving to only close her eyes for a moment before going to search Freddy’s room.

An hour later she was awakened by a shaft of sunlight streaming across her face through the windows they had neglected to cover. For a moment, she luxuriated in the warmth of the bed, Tom’s steady breathing, and the thought of the beautiful city surrounding them. And then she remembered.

Freddy was gone. Forever. And she owed it to him to find out what had happened. Robbery gone wrong—the detective’s conclusion? She didn’t think so. Thieves in Rome preyed on tourists in daylight, snatching purses, drawing your attention to a pigeon dropping or other mess on your back, then grabbing your wallet or backpack. Or the gangs of children employed to surround and cut off a target, creating a disturbance while one of them, or an adult, stole your camera, phone, and suitcase. The area around the train station was dangerous, and not just at night.

No, this wasn’t like that. Both men dressed in black, dressed so as not to be seen. Had it started with Freddy tailing his killer or someone else, discovered and forced to flee? Then there was the young man’s expensive clothing. Well, that could be due to the nature of his work—pickings good lately?

Yet, it all still came down to Freddy. Who was Frederick Lancelot Ives?

Any hotel guests who had not departed were lingering at breakfast and the hall was empty as Faith quietly slipped from their room. Freddy’s room was on the same floor as the Fairchilds,’ but at the far end. She hadn’t dared to hope that the room had not been cleaned, but the first thing that greeted her was the sight of the unmade bed. Knowing Freddy wasn’t coming back immediately, the staff must have skipped making it up, pressured by other housekeeping demands.

Yet aside from the bed, the room appeared not to have been occupied at all. There was nothing in the wastebaskets save a spent tube of Italian toothpaste, Pasta del Capitano. Faith was sure Freddy would have told her he used that brand because of its captivating name and the picture of the Capitano himself, complete with nineteenth-century mustachio. It was a large tube, indicating that Freddy had been in Italy for some time, or it could just have been his preferred paste.

The armoire was empty, as were all the drawers. Nothing under the bed. The minibar looked untouched. The room had to be, no question, the nicest in the hotel. Freddy was right about that. The ceilings above the bed and the small marble altar in the alcove that had once been a private chapel were covered in celestial frescoes, a giant sunburst positioned above the letto matrimoniale. The only clue that Freddy had been there was the faint smell of the lime cologne he wore. She knew that the scent would always bring him, and those awful moments, back.

Faith went to the window. It was at the front of the hotel and looked straight across into the French embassy. The embassy shutters were closed, but the street was starting to come to life. She pictured Freddy looking out yesterday morning. He had taken the time to draw the drapes and fold the shutters back, seeing what she was seeing now before he left. Left to go where? She turned away, closed and locked the door, before taking the stairs to the lobby. She didn’t want to smile at anyone in the elevator.

For once Paolo was not at the desk. A young woman who seemed to know who Faith was introduced herself. “I am Carolina, what can I do to help you? The breakfast is over, but I can get you and your husband anything you want to eat.”

“Grazie, but we are fine for now. Here is the key Paolo gave me. Please tell him I thought it was a very beautiful room, very special.”

“Our best. Signore Ives always had it.” Carolina’s face fell. Faith broke the somber silence voicing a thought she’d had on the way down.

“Did Freddy, that is Signore Ives, leave a suitcase or anything else in your storage closet when he checked out to pick up later in the day? If so, I wonder if I might look to see whether he had packed the book he was going to lend me.”

“Sì. His case is here. I put it away myself. I must remember to ask Paolo what we are to do with it now.” Carolina gave a deep sigh.

Faith followed her to a closet beyond the bar and watched as Carolina unlocked it. There were a number of bags in it. The one Carolina pointed out as Freddy’s was a good-size one behind the others. It didn’t have a luggage tag or anything else to distinguish it.

“I must go back to the desk. If you will put it back when you are finished, I will lock the door again.”

Faith set the case flat on the floor and unzipped the outside pockets, which were empty, before opening the main compartment. She felt like a voyeur as she went through Freddy’s things. Invading his personal space. But she had to.

He packed neatly. Extremely neatly. And, like the room, the contents offered nothing. They were impersonal to what she was sure was a considered degree. No one could ascertain anything from it except that what Faith had seen Freddy wear was what he wore all the time—there were duplicates of the two outfits, including an extra pair of his signature shoes. His toiletry kit revealed he preferred an American nonelectric-brand razor and the cologne was made by Penhaligon’s, a nod to his British roots? And very expensive ones at that?

She sat back on her heels to think about what this lack of information might mean. Both the room and now his suitcase were devoid of receipts, stamps, a souvenir postcard, letter, crumpled note on the hotel stationery, not even a used biglietto for the bus, although she and Tom had been surprised to see that no one ever used these tickets, hopping on and off without stamping one in the machine. Even a nun! Stefano, the taxi driver, had told them the widespread practice was putting him out of business.

Carolina had said there was just the one item. Faith would have expected a computer case or an electronic notebook in the suitcase. Freddy was a writer. Surely he didn’t create entire books using only the small notebook he carried.

There were two choices in cases like this—the conscious obliteration of one’s tracks. Freddy didn’t want his movements traced, either because he was a good guy—or a bad one.

There was a book at the bottom of the case, but it was not his notebook. It was the Graham Greene he’d been about to read when Faith met him on the rooftop terrace. The End of the Affair.

She took it with her.

Tom was still asleep. There was no need to wake him. The train didn’t leave for hours. Paolo had put a basket of small pastries, biscotti, rolls, butter, and jam on the tray with the tea. She had not thought she would ever be hungry again, but she was. She filled a napkin with some biscotti, buttered a roll, and took a bottle of water from her bag. Then, slipping quietly out of the room, she climbed the stairs to the roof. Tom would know where she had gone.

She assumed the terrace would be deserted and so it seemed. The hotel guests would be making their ways to Vatican City, the Capitoline Museum, or other parts of Italy, having “done” Rome. Faith sat on one of the small chairs next to the jasmine-covered trellis that hid the swing she’d thought she and Tom would have shared. Another time. Yes, they would come back.

She spread her small feast on the table and broke off a piece of biscotti. It was going to be another glorious day, the sky already an intense blue and cloudless. The sun felt good.

“This is a fine time for you to be getting scruples.”

The woman’s voice was so close that it startled Faith and she dropped the cookie. There were people on the roof and they were on the swing, out of sight, but only a scant few feet away. What to do? Cough? Leave?

“Just because you’re paying me doesn’t mean you own me!” a second woman said angrily.

They were speaking English, but their accents were purely American. Americans who had grown up or spent a great deal of time south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

This wasn’t friendly girl talk, so one or both was likely to get up and leave at any moment. There was only one thing to do if Faith wanted to find out who the women were. She gathered up the remains of her snack in the napkin and her water, retraced her steps on tiptoe, then came back, selecting another chair farther away and noisily scraping it against the concrete. From her new spot, she couldn’t hear anything, but a face peered around the trellis and seeing Faith gave a little wave.

“Buon giorno,” she said.

Faith half expected the greeting to be followed by “y’all.”

“Buon giorno,” she said, recognizing the woman from breakfast yesterday. She’d come in as the Fairchilds were finishing. She appeared to be in her thirties, and even at the early hour was in full makeup. Her deep auburn hair, lacquered in place, was styled as only big hair can be. An older woman with the same grooming regimen had accompanied her. They had made a beeline for the coffee.

Faith returned to her snack, eating slowly, and stared at the tops of the palms. It wasn’t long before both women emerged from their jasmine tent and nodded to her as they passed.

Not a moment too soon. Tom came on their heels, saying, “I thought you’d be here. But it’s been long enough. We need to take a walk, love.”

His words suggested she’d been there a while, and she was glad the two women hadn’t overheard him. Although the exchange Faith had overheard could mean nothing more than the one asking the other to smuggle the Gucci scarves, Fendi bags, and Bulgari bracelets that put her way over the limit allowed by customs in her luggage, she didn’t want them to know she’d been eavesdropping.

“And I’m hungry, too,” Tom added. “We need to get something to eat before the train.” He took her hand, pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

“Yes, let’s take a walk,” she said, holding him close. “It’s our dream trip and I’m not forgetting that. Do you know what I think we should do?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“I want to go to church and see the St. Matthew Caravaggios, especially the one with the dusty feet. I want to pray and light candles for Freddy. And then I want to go to the Trevi Fountain, throw two coins in, and find some more great panini.” Her voice caught at the last words, and she ended with a sob.

Tom stroked her hair. “This sounds perfect. Just what he would have wanted us to do, I’m sure.”

Faith shook the napkin out and wiped her eyes. Several pigeons swooped in to peck at the crumbs. She kissed her husband, their embrace lasting long past the pigeons’ consumption of the unexpected treat. The roof was completely empty of all forms of life when they finally let go of each other and went down the stairs to pack.

It wasn’t until she got to Termini, the train station, and saw all the families crowding the platforms for a day out, the women holding bouquets, that Faith remembered it was Mother’s Day here, too, Festa della Mamma. Sitting on the train, waiting for it to leave, she thought back to last year’s Mother’s Day. Her family had served her breakfast in bed and she had pretended to be very surprised. Both kids were comfortable in the kitchen, having started cooking with her at an early age. Ben had produced a delicious omelet oozing with fontina and thin shavings of smoked turkey, as a change from ham, he’d explained. Amy had made popovers, and Tom, well, Tom gave her flowers. After church they’d driven down to Norwell, Tom’s hometown on the South Shore, where they’d had a late lunch with the Fairchild clan, afterward piling into canoes for a paddle on the North River.

Faith’s own mother didn’t believe in Mother’s Day, declaring that every day was mother’s, father’s, and children’s day. That the May date was invented to sell cards, flowers, and perfume. She’d always thanked Faith and Hope for the cards they’d made at school and then the whole occasion had vanished once they were older until Tom appeared, askance at the attitude. His mother got flowers; Faith’s would, too. And Faith noticed that Jane very quickly began to enjoy the custom. She was glad she’d remembered to order them for both mothers before she’d left. But here she was, childless in Italy, and she felt quite a pang looking at all the happy families on the train and with such good things to eat, she suspected, tucked in all those baskets and boxes.

It was almost departure time, and as usual one lone traveler was making a dash for the doors. Faith was amused to see Goth Girl from the hotel lunge in at the last moment and then search for her seat, the cool expression on her face replaced for the moment by confusion and finally, relief.

It seemed they were almost immediately in the country, and Faith tried to focus on the passing scenery. A lone line of cypress trees atop a distant hill stood out against the blue afternoon sky. They looked almost human, with their stark limbs lined up for some kind of danse macabre. She instantly recalled the image from Ingmar Bergman’s film The Seventh Seal, and shut her eyes tightly.

“Honey, we’re almost there. Wake up.” Tom was gently shaking her shoulder.

She opened her eyes. The train was slowing. They were in the outskirts of another city. It couldn’t be Florence. Much too soon. Although the Eurostar train cut the time in half, to under an hour and a half. How long had she been sleeping?

“Come on. If we don’t get off, we’ll end up in Venice.”

“Not a bad thought,” Faith said. “Another time.”

She grabbed her carry-on bag and followed Tom to the storage area where they’d stowed their two cases. She’d put together a wardrobe of white tee shirts and jeans plus two sweaters, black crop pants, the one dress, shoes for walking, sandals, and flats. A raincoat, socks, and underwear completed her packing, except for some scarves and a necklace she’d bought several summers ago in Brooklin, Maine, at Sihaya Hopkins’s glassblowers studio—a thin gold wire with a selection of beads in several sizes. Sihaya worked in the tradition of Italian glass, molten layers of dense color, so it seemed appropriate to bring her work as Faith’s only jewelry.

“Did you catch what the conductor was announcing?” Tom said.

Faith had been aware of something coming over the loudspeaker, first in Italian, and then in English, but hadn’t paid attention. They were at the right stop and she was concentrating on getting off without leaving anything behind. “No, what was it?”

“He was apologizing for the train being seven minutes late. Can you imagine that happening on the MBTA?”

She could not, and it was yet another indication of how civilized things were here.

Francesca had told them to go outside and stand in front of the station and that someone would be there waiting holding a sign that said CUCINA DELLA ROSSI, the name of the school. As they exited the platform, Faith heard the very distinctive ringtone Ben had installed on her phone for the trip: the opening to 2001, which her son was very surprised to learn had been composed by a man named Richard Strauss in 1896, not John Williams. Ben thought his mother needed something that wouldn’t go unanswered, something dramatic. She fished her phone from her bag in a panic and hit “answer” only to hear two voices, one very childlike and the other octaves below, say in unison: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”

Faith tapped Tom—who was smiling broadly—lightly on the shoulder. She was glad that Yankee thrift hadn’t stopped him from arranging this particular roaming charge.

“Oh, you sweeties! What a wonderful surprise!”

“We miss you, Mom,” Amy said, but she sounded quite cheerful. “The Millers are taking us to lunch with Danny and Samantha!”

The two Miller children still living in the Boston area were former babysitters and permanent idols for both her children. Nope, Amy might say she missed her, but life didn’t get any better than hush puppies at Redbones in Somerville, the Millers’ favored spot near both kids’ apartments.

“Have fun and say hi to everyone for us.”

“So, did you get me a scooter yet?” Ben said, the laughter in his voice indicating what he thought the chances were.

“Not exactly, but we did get you something.”

Two somethings: a bright red Vespa holding up a snow globe containing the Colosseum; tacky, but Ben would love it. Also a Ferrari mouse for his computer. She’d find things for Amy in Florence.

She started to hand the phone to Tom, who shook his head and mouthed, “Send them my love.” Yankee thrift had kicked in.

“Love you from Dad and me.”

“Love you, too,” and they hung up, no doubt eager for the chance to sit in awe as Danny, now Dan, Miller described his adventures in the world of IT and Samantha talked about her job at the Gardner Museum, all the while drinking lemonade from Mason jars at the down-home restaurant.

Outside the train station, they spotted the sign immediately, especially as the man holding it was waving frantically at them and calling their names. He rushed over to them.

“I’m Gianni. We are going to have such a meraviglioso time.” The word needed no translation and he grabbed their bags, motioning them to a large van parked in what Faith was sure was an illegal spot, but since there were many other vehicles angled in the same way, it apparently didn’t matter.

“We are waiting for a few more. Two people are already in the macchina. Why don’t you get in?” He had stowed their bags in the back and was returning to his spot, speaking rapidly all the while.

Maybe opposites do attract, Faith thought. Gianni’s wife, Francesca, was a woman of few words, at least when Faith had known her, and exuded a quiet serenity, unless extremely provoked, which Faith had also witnessed those many years ago. She’d seen family pictures over time, but they hadn’t done justice to this extremely handsome man—tall, slender, but muscular, his warm smile and sparkling blue eyes crowned by a picturesque mop of dark brown Michelangelo curls.

They got into the van and had just introduced themselves to the couple inside—Len and Terry Russo from Livingston, New Jersey, whom Faith recalled seeing in the hotel lobby getting their key from Paolo—when Gianni returned with the rest of the guests in tow, and more introductions were made as he put the rest of the luggage away.

Faith had seen all of them before in Rome—in and out of the hotel.

There were the two southern women, Harriet and Sally Culver, an aunt and niece from Louisiana; the passionate couple from the restaurant and gelateria, who turned out to be Sky Hayes and Jack Sawyer, from Beverly Hills; and finally—Goth Girl! Her name was Olivia, apparently no last name or one she wasn’t willing to share, nor did she divulge her country of origin, although from the girl’s accent, Faith was willing to bet a sizable ranch in the Outback that Olivia was an Aussie.

An interesting crew. Molto simpatico?

Gianni appeared to be able to drive while providing a running commentary on what they were passing, speaking over his shoulder with greater frequency than felt comfortable to Faith, but he obviously knew the road.

“We will return tomorrow morning to choose ingredients at the Mercato Centrale, which is next to the Basilica di San Lorenzo, so you will have time if you like to run in and say hello to the Medicis.”

It was obvious that Gianni was in high good humor and born to be the host of this sort of venture. Faith had known all too many people whose dreams of owning restaurants and inns went up in smoke when they were faced with the reality of always being pleasant and always “on” for their guests.

As eager as she was to get to the villa, Faith wished Gianni would slow down so she could soak up this first sight of the Arno Valley, surrounded by steep hillsides covered with olive groves and vineyards, creating giant patchwork squares with fields of grain. And everywhere bright red poppies swayed in the breeze. Far off in the distance the kind of miniature hill towns so alluring in the misty backgrounds of Renaissance paintings jutted out from the horizon.

Gianni turned off the main road, built by the Romans, he said, onto a smaller one, and then made a few more turns until they were on a dirt road shaded by a canopy of oaks and lined with those tall pines that seemed to know just where to grow for maximum effect. Just beyond, there were acres of vineyards. She was suddenly very hungry—and dying for a glass of wine.

A few minutes later they were there. Villa Rossi. A much larger place than Faith had imagined. The walls of the house were stone, earth tones that gave way to bright terra-cotta roof tiles; the shutters had been painted a soft green with a hint of silver, like olive trees. Wisteria tumbled from a small iron balcony over the front door, and roses of all shades and sizes filled large planters as well as partially covered the garden walls. These last were exactly as she’d imagined. And there were palm trees!

Francesca was running toward her, arms outstretched.

“Faith!” She hugged her tight, whispering in her ear, “I am so sorry. So sorry. Paolo called. We knew signore Ives, all of us. But I am also so happy you are here.” She let go and stepped away. “I cannot believe it!” She turned to give Tom a hug and greet the other guests.

As they crowded into the hallway, a voice drifted out from one of the rooms to the side.

“Now, we absolutely must tell this woman that I bathe in the morning and you bathe in the evening. This is the sort of place that is always running out of hot water. Roderick! Did you hear what I said? We have to—”

“Yes, dear, I heard,” he said, cutting her off.

Even without the use of his name, Faith would have recognized that voice anywhere.

Maybe not tutti è simpatico.