The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 4





Francesca asked everyone to gather in the spacious living room. Once they were all settled, she stood in front of a fireplace large enough to roast an ox, or, Faith thought, more likely Tuscan boar. She wasn’t sure how long the house had been in the Rossi family, but she knew the main structure was over two hundred years old. She looked at the tiled floor and the stone lintel at the door into the hall, concave with wear, and once more she thought of all the footsteps she was following.

She was trying to give Francesca her full attention, trying not to let her mind wander back to last night and today’s early morning hours, as it had been periodically, adding a surreal quality to the journey and now the arrival here. She kept seeing Freddy’s face—animated under that hat on the hotel terrace, savoring the carciofi at the restaurant, and contemplative in front of the Pantheon beneath the dark velvet Rome sky. She wanted to remember those faces. The faces when he was alive. But the one that dominated all the others was the last face, his dying face. This was the visage she so desperately wanted to forget.

Faith forced herself to look around the room instead, taking in the details, so obviously Francesca’s own touches. The woman had always had brilliant taste. There were bouquets of hydrangea, roses, and trailing ivy throughout—fragrant, but not cloying. A brightly polished copper container on the table in front of the couch was heaped with lemons so perfect they looked fake, their authenticity betrayed by their aroma. It was going to be a week of tastes and smells, as well as delights for the eye. The late afternoon sun lit an array of Tuscan pottery lining the shelves of an antique bookcase. The vivid colors and exuberant patterns—fruits, vegetables, and whimsical animals—distracted Faith for a moment as she thought how nice it would be to have platters and pitchers like these at Aleford, especially during those endless dark New England winter days.

“I think we are all here, yes?” Francesca said.

The photos she had been sending over the years had not lied. If anything, they didn’t do her justice. She appeared only slightly older than the eighteen-year-old she’d been when she’d worked for Faith in New York City. Her long, gleaming chestnut hair was pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and her skin was smooth, not a trace of a wrinkle, and lightly tanned. If she’d gained baby weight after any of her three children, it had disappeared, but she did retain that glow Faith associated with pregnant women. And it was a glow reproduced on so many of the paintings of the Madonna she’d been seeing since she’d arrived. Mary must have had an exceptionally easy baby—no colic for sure.

“Benvenuti, welcome, everyone,” Francesca said, standing straighter.

“We are going to have a wonderful week, starting now. After we talk a little here, you will find your rooms upstairs. Your names are on cards on each door and your luggage is being placed there now. I hope it is all to your liking, and if you need anything, please let me, Gianni, or one of the staff know.”

Faith did not think it was her imagination; Francesca was undeniably casting a nervous glance at the British couple. Her English was fluent with a lovely lilt, but she’d stumbled over the phrase “to your liking.”

“We will begin by introducing ourselves, break for an hour so you can unpack, rest if you like, and then we’ll meet in the kitchen to make an antipasto to go with the wine tasting that has been arranged for you before our dinner. Tonight I have prepared most of the meal, since you have all been traveling, but for all the other nights, you will be the cooks from start to finish!”

She was beaming, and Faith was happy—relieved to see that most of the faces in the room were reflecting Francesca’s enthusiasm. Only Goth Girl—she had to start thinking of her as “Olivia” instead—and the Brits had neutral expressions.

“Faith and Tom, why don’t you start? It was Faith who gave me my very first job at her catering company when I was studying in the United States many years ago!”

Faith wished Francesca hadn’t revealed Faith’s occupation. She didn’t want to intimidate the others, and also she could evaluate how things were going much better if she’d been incognito.

She nodded to Tom. Let him speak. He was used to it.

“As you’ve just heard, I’m Tom and this is my wife, Faith. We’re delighted to be here and even though my wife has certain skills, mine are limited to opening a can and dialing, so I’m hoping to change some of that by the end of the course. We live in Aleford, Massachusetts, about twenty minutes outside Boston, and have two kids, one who unfortunately has just entered his teens and a third grader who still happily likes to sleep with her stuffed animals.”

This last sentence brought some smiles. Other parents? But what Faith was noting in particular was that given the chance, Tom, the sky pilot, was flying under the radar. She well understood his wish. Invariably, revealing his profession made people want to keep their distances, and watch their mouths, or the opposite.

The couple from New Jersey was sitting on the couch next to the Fairchilds.

“We’re Len and Terry Russo from Livingston, New Jersey, not far from Manhattan, you cross a state line for a totally different state of mind—or so they tell me,” she said. “We’ve heard all the Jersey jokes.” The gentle fun she was poking at herself reminded Faith of that famous New Yorker cover by Saul Steinberg where a map pictured a bustling Manhattan from Ninth Avenue down absorbing most of the vista, Jersey a tiny strip, the rest of the United States even smaller, and the horizon dotted with China, Japan, and Russia in minuscule type. It was a Manhattan mind-set she shared, much to her husband’s bewilderment.

“We’re here because we love to cook,” Terry continued, “and, well, as you can see, we love to eat, too.”

Both Russos were carrying a few extra pounds, but not much. Faith was surprised the woman had mentioned it, and her husband did not appear happy with the remark. The man was actually scowling. They looked to be in their late forties, and when it seemed that this was going to be the extent of Terry’s remarks, Gianni, who had come into the room, said, “The name ‘Rossi’ is ‘Russo’ in Southern Italy, so we’re related!”

That did the trick, and Len Russo relaxed visibly. “Paisan!” he called out. Gianni’s personality, Faith realized, was going to be a major asset for Cucina della Rossi.

A strident voice broke into her thoughts.

“We are Roderick and Constance Nashe from Surrey. I think you will find we are not novices in the kitchen, having had a great deal of experience with fine dining and the execution of many cuisines.”

She shot Faith a look that clearly threw down a glove—my knife skills versus yours any day. Faith also noted that Constance did not deem it necessary to mention that Surrey was in England and one of the wealthiest parts of the country. One was just supposed to know these things.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun!” The speaker actually clapped her hands together. “I mean, my aunt and I want to learn everything. We are total beginners, but we just love Italian food! Oh, I’m Sally Culver and she’s Harriet—”

“Sugar”—Harriet interrupted her niece—“the last time anyone called me ‘Harriet’ was when Daddy caught me sneaking peach schnapps from his liquor cabinet around the time dinosaurs were still roaming the bayous. Call me ‘Hattie,’ y’all. And you’ve probably guessed that we’re from Louisiana.”

Faith noticed Hattie was wearing a wedding band, but her niece wasn’t. Perhaps to make up for it, she had a diamond and sapphire cocktail ring that she’d definitely have to take off before kneading pasta dough.

After the Culvers, the room descended into what was soon an uncomfortable silence. The remaining three people looked at one another and then all of them spoke at once, stopped, and finally Olivia plunged in.

“I’m Olivia. Here to learn.” The intimation was that the rest of her fellow students were good-time charlies, dilettantes, culinary lightweights.

More silence.

“Where are you from, dear?” Hattie asked. “I’m getting a hint of Crocodile Dundee. So you’re Australian?”

“Something like that,” Olivia said, and slouched back in her chair. She’d picked one far from the rest of the group by the windows.

“I guess that leaves us. We’re Sky and Jack from sunny California,” said the woman Faith had noticed at the Hostaria Giggetto and afterward at the gelateria that first night in Rome. A very passionate pair, judging from their behavior between courses. Maybe they were on their honeymoon. Their wedding rings were shiny, and Sky’s was coupled with a diamond as big as the Ritz. She looked younger than Faith, although it was hard to tell her age. Good genes or maybe a good plastic surgeon. Whatever the cause, she was a stunning California girl with more than a passing resemblance to Farrah, except with updated hair—blond, yes, but straight, a glossy silken curtain hanging to the top of her almost bare shoulders. She was wearing a tank top with whisker-thin straps. Her eyes, or contact lenses, were emerald green.

“We thought it would be fun to do something different. I mean not just go look at museums.”

“Not that we don’t like that,” Jack said. “Anyway, we’re hoping to wow people when we get home with some gourmet meals.”

If Sky was Farrah, Jack was Malibu Ken—toned, buff. He exuded health and he was also blond. Adopting the current fashion among men his age, he looked like he needed a shave. It was oddly attractive. Alone or together, Sky and Jack turned heads. Faith had had an Uncle Sky, short for Schuyler. She doubted that was the case here, imagining flower-children parents who fortunately hadn’t saddled their daughter with something groovy like Rainbow Starlight.

The couple was sitting close; she was almost in his lap. Faith noticed that Olivia was regarding them with an expression of loathing, which quickly disappeared when she saw that Faith had seen it. Olivia was here to cook. Clearly she was not going to have any patience for those who might have other things in mind.

“Such a wonderful group. From so many places,” Francesca said. “It is just what Gianni and I have hoped. Now, before you leave, one last thing. Breakfast—colazione—will start in the dining room each day at seven for the early risers and go until eight thirty. It will be buffet-style, but if you want something you do not see, please let us know.”

Constance Nashe didn’t even let a millisecond go by. “I suppose it isn’t going to be possible to get a cooked breakfast.” She stated it as a fact. “Poached eggs, proper toast.”

“That is no problem at all. You just need to tell me what you would like as soon as you come down, or the night before with the time you want it in the morning, and it will be ready. We have wonderful sausages and tomatoes, so we can do a full English breakfast if you like. Even the beans, although they may be a little different.”

Not canned, Faith thought, noting with glee the disappointment on Constance’s face at having her demand satisfied. She was obviously a woman who enjoyed making those around her uncomfortable, even when it meant her own needs weren’t met.

“You will find a folder in your rooms with information about our house and the grounds. I think you will especially enjoy our pool. We have given you the schedule for each day, but it may change. We want to know what you would like to do, so the outings are suggestions, although we planned them with a view toward introducing you to this area in the short time we have—markets, wineries, some historic towns, and of course, Florence itself starting tomorrow morning. We have tickets for those who wish to visit the Duomo and other places. There is a map of the city and also some other maps in the folder.”

She took a breath. Faith felt proud of her former employee. Francesca was doing very well.

“We have one other student who will be joining us during the day. You will meet him later this evening. I think you will enjoy Jean-Luc. He has restored an old property a short walk from here and is originally from France. He has invited the class to visit his villa on Tuesday and will talk about the renovation process he went through if you are interested. I can tell you it took much longer than he thought! But it is a beautiful home now. Oh, I almost forgot. You will be cooking from sheets I will give you each day in the kitchen, but at the end, you will have new ones without the food spills in a binder to take home.”

She looked at her watch. “One hour—and then meet back here?”

There were murmurs of assent and people started leaving to go to their rooms. Faith and Tom went over to Gianni and Francesca.

“So far, so good. Everybody seems happy to be here,” Tom said. “I can’t wait. I’m not bad at nookie, but have never tried my hand at gnocchi.”

Faith had forbidden him to repeat this joke, which he had tried out on her some weeks before, and she was only happy that at the moment the audience was limited to their two friends.

Gianni laughed uproariously and Francesca looked puzzled. Faith gave her husband a look. A wife-type look.

“Okay, okay.” He was laughing, too. “I had to try it once, didn’t I?”

“Not really,” she started, and was about to elaborate when Francesca pulled her to the side. “Could you come into the kitchen for a moment or do you need to freshen up?”

“No, I’m fine. And I’d love to see the kitchen. Tom, why don’t you unpack your things?” This wouldn’t take long. Tom had packed even less than she had. “If you’re not in the room, I’ll find you where?”

“Definitely checking out the pool.”

The reverend had obviously decided he was on vacation, Faith thought. And she would work at getting in the same mood. Tom saw much more death than she did—and he had also not had the same amount of contact with Freddy. She looked out the French doors that led to a patio and spotted the pool, an inviting turquoise oblong farther down the hillside. It, the garden, the pleasure of cooking again with Francesca, would all help her to move on. And move is what she did, following Francesca down the hall and through the dining room, noting the sizable wooden table, long and wide, easily seating the entire class and then some. The kitchen was conveniently located off the room.

The Rossis must have gutted whatever was here, Faith thought. She had expected the cucina to match the rest of the house, but instead it was a sleek modern restaurant kitchen with slip-resistant rubber foot-friendly flooring, stainless appliances, and enough workstations to accommodate up to sixteen students. Under each table, she glimpsed everything that would be needed—bowls, measuring cups, pots, pans, strainers, etc. Knives and other utensils would be close at hand in the drawers, she was sure. Yet this would never be mistaken for a teaching kitchen in the United States. A window had been pushed out to provide a wide sill with space to grow fresh herbs, the glazes on the pots a splash of color. Braids of garlic and dried peppers hung on either side. Several containers of oils sat next to rows of earthenware jars no doubt filled with all sorts of olives, dried mushrooms, and fruits and vegetables preserved in a variety of ways. Francesca had been the one to teach Faith how to make the best glazed fruit, eggplant caponata, and an Italian version of olive tapenade. There were serving pieces of the same pottery on display in the living room piled on one counter. Faith felt her whole mood change.

“It’s gorgeous! I can’t wait to start cooking,” Faith said. “You and Gianni have done an amazing job, I hope you have some ‘before’ pictures. How do you say ‘dream kitchen’ in Italian?”

She was suddenly very much aware that her enthusiasm was having no effect on her friend. In fact, the woman looked close to tears.

“I have a big problem and I’m very worried.”

Faith thought she knew and was instantly sympathetic.

“Constance?”

Francesca shook her head. “I can handle her. She is just like my mother’s friend Lucia; something always has to be wrong to make them happy. No, none of the students. It’s our assistant. Alberto. He has disappeared.”

Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:

So much for the pool. Tom is sound asleep on top of what looks like an extremely comfortable bed. Cucina della Rossi is going to be a big success. They have done everything right. The house is beautiful, and if the other rooms are anything like this one, they’ll be turning people away. It could be in one of those Tuscan-style coffee table books—the bed has a sheer muslin canopy, very romantic—and the walls are the color of goldenrod. They must have scoured the countryside for the antique furniture, a beautiful armoire and chest of drawers. There’s even a tiny balcony just big enough for a table and two chairs, perfect for morning espresso or an evening digestif. Anyway, we’re here and I am determined to have a good time. I can be sad, impossible not to be, but I’m with my beloved (although not much company at the moment) and that’s what’s important.

I’ll write about my fellow students later. Have to wake Tom soon and get down to the kitchen. We’re making antipasti for tonight’s meal. Wonder what it will be. But want to make note of these people at some point. A mixed bag. At least we all share a love of good food. I think. But poor Francesca. Not even open twenty-four hours before a major problem. I wanted to tell her this was going to happen a lot, but she doesn’t need to know that yet. What she needs now is a solution. Apparently months ago she found the perfect sous chef, Alberto. Someone from another village (maybe this was a mistake?), and they have been working side by side to get everything ready. Last night they all said buona notte and trundled off to bed. The Rossis and staff are sleeping in what used to be the Italian equivalent of a granary, which they remodeled for their use and any overflow guests. When Alberto didn’t show up for his morning cappuccino Gianni went to his room and discovered that he was gone. Also all his things. The bed hadn’t been slept in. This without a word to them or any other indication that he was planning to jump villa. They’ve put the word out to get a replacement and I offered, but Gianni’s sister is filling in for now. Not a good solution, tho. Besides working in the kitchen, Alberto was acting as the handyman, helping Gianni, and she can’t do that. She’s about five feet tall and her arms are like linguine. First Francesca was afraid something happened to him, but after she discovered some truffles stored in a place only the three of them knew about were missing, she moved straight to livid. More later. Tom’s awake and it’s time for some vino.

Before moving into the kitchen, Gianni invited the students for a glass of cold Prosecco served on the terrace, which extended across the rear of the house. Lavender and rosemary the size of small shrubs lined the walls, and a pergola covered with vines provided shade. It smelled, and looked, heavenly. Whether because of the wine or the beautiful setting or both, by the time the group moved indoors, it was a convivial one. Faith noticed that Roderick Nashe had managed to snag several refills, and his face was looking much less like that of a country squire confronting a poacher, his habitual expression heretofore, and more like a country squire hoisting a tankard or two after riding to the hounds. Even Olivia seemed almost cheerful.

They had just started to go indoors when a man appeared from around the corner of the house. He looked Italian and Faith immediately assumed it was the wayward sous chef returning with a plausible excuse for his absence and his sudden need for the truffles—his Vespa had been stolen? A relative needed an operation? Anyway, whatever the reason for the sudden absence turned out to be, Faith was very relieved to see him. Gianni’s sister seemed like a lovely person but was clearly not up to the chores.

Except it wasn’t Alberto.

“Jean-Luc! Just in time.” Gianni went to greet his neighbor. “Come and meet everyone. We are about to start preparing, and more important, getting set to eat, the antipasto.”

“Since I have brought the wine for our tasting, I knew you wouldn’t start without me.”

He was smiling broadly, conveying the impression that there was nowhere else he’d rather be at the moment than with all of them. He was going to be a fine addition to the group, Faith thought.

Seeing him closer, she realized he was older than he had appeared at first. His curly dark hair was streaked with gray, yet he carried himself with youthful athleticism. He was stylishly dressed in a pale yellow linen shirt and trousers the color of cocoa.

“Before I learn your names, please call me ‘Luke,’ since so many of you are Americans, I understand. When I was working in Colorado a long time ago—a young man’s adventure—they gave me the nickname and I think I will be ‘Luke’ for the week again.”

Glancing at her fellow classmates, Faith noted they seemed as taken with the man as she was, even Constance, who had acted positively, and even slightly nauseatingly, girlish when he shook her hand.

About to introduce herself in turn, Faith felt the words stick in her throat in reaction to the smell of lime that hit her full force as he approached. It was the same citrus cologne that Freddy had worn. She swallowed hard. Coincidence. Only coincidence. The brand, Penhaligon’s, was no doubt sold in Florence at all the upscale farmacias. She tried to sidestep the memory, stammering out that she was Faith Fairchild and lived in the United States near Boston, Massachusetts. Tom took over, asking the man what part of France he was from and how long he’d been living in the neighborhood. She knew it wasn’t because her husband had picked up on her confusion. It was what he did. A natural interest in people that went with his turf, even sans collar.

“I am from a small place near Nice, but this is now my adopted country. I have been doing my best to help the Italian economy for many years, though I bought my villa here only four years ago.”

Gianni was ushering people back into the house toward the kitchen. “Jean-Luc—oh, I must remember you are an American cowboy for these days—Luke speaks perfect Italian even with his French accent, which means he has been able to talk to the men working on his place. I think this is why he has been able to do so much in so little time.”

The kitchen drew oohs and aahs. Gianni’s sister handed out white chef’s aprons and kitchen towels. Faith noticed that, like herself, Olivia, the Nashes, and the Culvers all placed the towel at the front of the apron over the drawstrings for easy access, indicating their familiarity with professional kitchen routines.

“No toques?” Luke asked.

“No hats at all, just keep your hair back if it is long,” Francesca said firmly. “Now, we have twelve people, so all week you will be cooking in groups of four. You must tell me how you would like to be divided. I thought couples might split up, as often the groups will be cooking different things and this way you will learn more, but if you would rather stay together please say so.”

“We’ll split up,” Len Russo said quickly, earning a glare from his wife. He added, “So we can learn more stuff, hon.”

“Good idea,” Faith said. She knew being with Tom would make her crazy. She’d want to snatch the knife or the whisk from his hand and do everything herself.

The Nashes also split up, and Faith noticed Constance sidling over to Luke. Oh dear, there could be tears before bedtime, she predicted. She doubted the handsome Frenchman went in for tweed. The Culvers opted for separate groups with more protestations about wanting to learn just everything and truly loving Italian food. Jack and Sky stayed together. Faith was not surprised.

When everyone was at a station, Francesca said, “We are going to make crostini, a simple and delicious way to start the meal. First of all, let me tell you the difference between crostini and bruschetta, which we will also make during the course. ‘Crostini’ means ‘little toasts’ and ‘bruschetta’ comes from ‘bruscare,’ to roast over hot coals. The biggest difference is the kind of bread. For bruschetta we use a rustic, country-type bread, similar to sourdough, and we slice a larger and thicker piece than for crostini, which uses a different bread as well—a white, baguette-type loaf. One of the nights when we are cooking outdoors, we’ll do bruschetta over the coals. The simplest way, which we like best, is rubbing the slightly charred bread with garlic and topping it with our own olive oil—maybe a little fresh basil and diced tomato.”

“I’m starving already!” Hattie called out.

“Good. We want everyone to bring a good appetite. Now each group is going to make a different topping for tonight’s crostini, which we will toast in the oven under the broiler. You can also make crostini by brushing some olive oil on each side and baking the bread. I like to have sometimes the extra crunchiness the broiler makes.”

Each group sliced bread at their tables and Gianni’s sister—what was her name? Faith wondered—whisked the baking sheets away to the oven. Francesca explained that she had selected quick toppings, but that she would include others in the recipe packet.

“One of my favorites is a traditional spread we make from cooked chicken livers, sage, rosemary, a little cognac, sometimes a little anchovy, coarsely chopped and mixed together, but it takes an hour. There is also a fashion now in Italy for making Mexican crostini with a kind of Italian guacamole. You can put anything you like on top of the bread!”

She looked over at Faith, and Faith knew Francesca was thinking of the first time she’d had the south-of-the-border avocado spread—at a restaurant in New York City when her boss had finally been able to get the young girl to reveal her real reason for coming to the States. So many years had gone by. It had been another century and another life.

Faith was in a group with Olivia, Sally Culver, and Len Russo. They were going to be assembling crostini topped with thinly sliced fennel, olive oil, and salami that Gianni told them came from a nearby farm. Once they started, Len was taking so many “just a little tastes” of the meat that Faith was afraid they wouldn’t have enough, but it was soon clear that it didn’t matter. He was having a good time, as it seemed the rest of the room was, and she had to remind herself she wasn’t on a job. Although she added a bit of fennel frond to each crostini as a finishing touch.

It soon become obvious that Olivia had worked in a restaurant, and perhaps attended some sort of culinary institute. She was all-business, which Faith had been expecting. What she hadn’t been expecting was the way Sally handled a knife. Someone in the bayou had taught the woman well, but when Faith asked how she’d learned, she flushed and said she watched a lot of cooking shows on cable. It seemed to Faith that she slowed down after that, even fumbling twice. On purpose?

When they were done, the crostini looked beautiful arranged on the colorful platters. Cameras and phones came out of pockets and photos were snapped. Sally Culver had been documenting the entire process, checking out the other groups, too. Her camera was very professional, a cut above Faith’s own, which was perfect for the trip, but when she imagined the quality of the food photos Sally’s would achieve, she felt a little jealous.

Besides Faith’s group’s salami/fennel effort, there were a fig and prosciutto topping; smoked salmon, mascarpone, and capers; fresh tomato and ricotta; as well as some prepared by Francesca—melt-in-your-mouth slices of lardo; and Asiago cheese and smoked ham with a drizzle of fennel honey. Fennel was the new something, Faith noted to herself. Fennel pollen, fennel honey, just plain fennel. Maybe the new smoked paprika? Or was that dating herself ?

While the “chefs” were finishing up, Gianni and Luke had prepared the wine tasting in a room off the living room that the Rossis called their library. French doors led outside and, besides a wall of bookcases, there was an entertainment system hidden in a beautifully carved tall chest should anyone have a craving for Italian or satellite TV. Faith pictured herself instead curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs reading cookbooks, one of her favorite things to do—even if she never cooked any of the recipes. She’d spied some on the shelves along with an assortment of fiction in several languages.

Soon they were sampling the delicious crostini and tasting two reds: a 2008 Rosso di Montalcino and a 2009 Chianti Classico, as well as two whites: a 2009 Moscato di Terracina—this was Faith’s favorite, the Muscat grape went perfectly with the hearty flavors of the various crostini, especially the salmon—and a 2010 Collio Pinot Grigio. As the antipasti disappeared, she slipped back to the kitchen to see if she could help Francesca get dinner on the table and learned that Gianni’s sister was named Gianna. Had to have been major childhood confusion there when calling out the back door.

The Rossis on both sides were pitching in to make Cucina della Rossi successful. Francesca’s parents had the children for the week at their house, close enough so she or Gianni could run over to see them, but enough out of the way so their parents could concentrate on the cooking school. Gianna was prepared to stay until they could find a replacement for Alberto. The kitchen was filled with fantastic smells, and as they cooked, Francesca and her sister-in-law chatted away. Faith found it very relaxing not to have to follow a conversation and busied herself with the pasta course—pappardelle, a broad fettuccine, made that afternoon, tossed in a light porcini mushroom cream sauce, finished off with a little butter. They could hear the others entering the adjacent dining room. It was time to plate, and Francesca asked Faith to shave some pecorino over each portion.

And they heard something else. A knock on the kitchen door.

A very loud knock.

Francesca and Gianna opened the door together quickly. A young man stood without. In less than a moment all three were engaged in rapid conversation.

“Do you speak English?” Francesca said loudly, taking a step back and motioning Faith over.

“Sì, yes,” he said and added another “yes,” firmly.

“Say something to us.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest.

He appeared to consider several options and then with a smile, recited, “Mary had a little lamb that was white. Like snow. And everywhere the lamb go. Even the school. I know one about a boy, Jack, and a pie, too.”

After she stopped laughing, Francesca told him to wash his hands and serve the pasta Faith had prepared.

“And you only speak English to that lady and the rest of the students. Capisce?”

He nodded and said to Faith, “I want to learn better. Tell me when I make a mistake. I am Mario.”

Francesca said something to him in Italian that Faith figured was “get going,” since he scurried over to the sink.

“Go, eat, Faith. Join the others. You are not here to work,” Francesca said.

“I gather Alberto has been replaced?”

“It’s a miracle. Or maybe not. I shouldn’t be surprised. When you live where I do word travels fast. Mario heard we were looking for someone at the caffè on the square. He had stopped to eat on his way back from visiting some family near Chiusi. He lives in Rome and just left a job at a restaurant there. He would be happy to be here for the summer and save some money.”

Faith was puzzled. She didn’t think the job paid that much. “What do you mean?”

“We will give him room and board besides his wages. He rents an apartment in Rome in an area popular with foreign students coming to take courses now, and his roommates will have no trouble finding someone until he goes back in the fall, even though rents there are very high.”

“So, win-win,” Faith said and started to leave the kitchen, needing no further encouragement to join the group. She knew that Il Secondo, the course after Il Primo, the pasta, was rabbit. Francesca had prepared it by placing a mixture of rosemary, sage, salt, pepper, and lardo into slits she’d cut, and then spreading more of the mixture over the meat inside and out. In another pan she was roasting carrots and potatoes very simply with olive oil and the same herbs as a side dish, caramelizing them slightly at the end with a little raw sugar. A variety of cheeses were ripening on a large board, so Faith knew there would be that course before Il Dolce. And what would that be? A simple fruit preparation or something richer? Some kind of panna cotta or maybe the lusciously rich semifreddi that Francesca had also introduced her to all those years back—hazelnut, pistachio, chocolate, coffee. She left the kitchen amazed that she could still think about food after all the crostini she’d eaten.

Mario was indeed an answer to their prayers, and she sat down next to Tom content in the knowledge that with such a big problem solved, there would only be minor ones, if any at all, for the rest of the session.

Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:

Every woman’s dream. An incredible meal and no dishes to wash. Tom is sitting with Gianni and some of the others having some grappa. For a man who normally nods off before the ten o’clock news, he’s become an immediate convert to the Italian way of life. I’m the one who crashed and am writing this in bed. Trying to figure out what I’m feeling, who I am here. Not thinking about Freddy, just about me, Faith. I read somewhere that when you travel you lose yourself. Not sure. More that you try to find yourself I think. Hard to do in Aleford, where I’m always Reverend Fairchild’s wife; Ben and Amy’s mom; or that food woman, the caterer. Tomorrow we go to Florence. The market and then we’re free until the afternoon, when we’ll return to cook. Want to see all the things am supposed to, but also plan to wander. Need shoes. Or gloves. Or maybe both.