The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 5





Could she be morphing into a morning person? Faith wondered as she followed Tom quietly out of the house. No one else appeared to be up, although there were faint noises coming from the kitchen indicating breakfast was being prepared. The Fairchilds had decided to walk into the village and have their colazione with the locals. They left a note for the Rossis on the table where someone would be sure to see it saying where they were—Mario had solved the Alberto problem, but the last thing their friends needed was to find another empty room with no Fairchilds, or explanation, in sight.

“I keep pinching myself, cara mia. Can’t believe we’re here and I’m not struggling with my sermon—or the vestry,” Tom said.

Faith squeezed his hand. The path that Gianni had pointed out last night was wide enough for two to walk abreast. Rolling fields and vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see on either side, the dark red ochre soil a reminder of the richness of the Tuscan earth.

“Oh, Tom,” she exclaimed as they came across a solid field of poppies. “It’s like The Wizard of Oz, except good poppies and I’m not Dorothy and you’re not a lion or made of tin or straw.”

“Otherwise, exactly the same, I agree,” he said with an indulgent smile. “I don’t know whether we can find ruby slippers in Florence, but I’m pretty sure there are plenty of red leather shoes. Although no clicking your heels until we absolutely have to go home.”

“Agreed.”

She was in no rush either. A girl could get used to this sort of leisure—a stroll like this with her husband, as well as knowing she’d return to a bed and room made up by someone else.

They were beginning to pass farms and other kinds of square dwellings, built of stone and roofed with rounded clay tiles, the style typical of the region for centuries. Soon they saw the massive ancient walls surrounding the hilltop village and the steep road that they assumed would take them to the center.

“Smell the acacia? It’s those yellow fluffy flowers on the shrubs over there,” Faith said, pointing. “A kind of mimosa.”

“I didn’t know you were going in for horticulture these days. You’re beginning to sound like Pix. Not a bad thing, of course.”

Pix Miller and her family had been born clutching Life Bird Lists, magnifying glasses, flora and fauna identification charts, and all manner of other nature lore necessities. Tom’s family, too, were always pointing out constellations and talking about things like the next salamander crossings. Faith figured it was a New England thing.

“Tuscan acacia honey, probably some made from these very blossoms, is one of my favorites. We have to be sure to take a few jars back.”

“Ah, gastronomy, not botany. I should have known. Now, which caffè?” They had arrived at the main piazza, the heart of every Italian city and town, a place almost never empty—crowded day and night with an ever-changing mix of ages whether natives or tourists. It was too early for any tour groups, but the three caffès that fronted on it were bustling with customers on their way to work, and those who’d retired from everyday occupations. These last were mostly playing cards on the tables outside, empty cups lined up in a row. Faith pointed to a spot at random and they went in to stand at the counter.

After consuming two caffè lattes and a buttery cornetto, Faith felt extremely content. Such a nice custom, these very civilized but efficient breakfasts. Why didn’t Aleford have places like this? There wasn’t even a Starbucks.

They wandered the narrow streets leading off the piazza, pausing to take photos. Faith’s camera was tiny enough to fit in her pocket, and she found she was drawn to details rather than broad vistas—iron doorknockers shaped like lion heads, Egyptian faces, medieval imps; and lines of wash blowing in the breeze: blue workmen’s pants, sheer lingerie. Window boxes and planters overflowing with lush blooms and always, always arrays of fruit, vegetables, cheeses, displays in bakery and butcher shopwindows. Back at the piazza, they tried the church door, but it was locked, and reluctantly they decided they’d better head back so they wouldn’t keep the others waiting for the trip to Florence. For a moment Faith wished they weren’t on a schedule and could create their own rhythms the way those around them seemed to be doing. The card players had moved their chairs into the shade and pigeon-breasted older women—nonnas, grandmothers?—were crossing the expanse, carrying baskets, on their way to shop. Was there a local outdoor market today? Faith hoped she hadn’t missed it; she’d ask Francesca which day it was.

As they walked out of town, they passed the paper obituary notices, some with photos, that Italians post on walls to announce a death and funeral arrangements. It struck Faith as a sensible way to get the word out in a village this size, although she had seen them in Rome, too. An ever-present reminder that in the midst of life we are in death. Some of the notices were over a year old and the weather had obscured the print. Plastered against the old stones, they were very moving.

“So, what do you think of our fellow class members? We haven’t really discussed them,” Tom asked as they started down the hill.

“I could do without the Nashes. Did you hear her almost bite Len Russo’s head off when he called Roderick ‘Rod’?”

“I guess this means ‘Connie’ is out, too.”

“Definitely. Anyway, a group like this is always a mixture of serious cooks and people who want a different kind of vacation—maybe to one-up their neighbors. ‘Oh yes, we’re serving the osso buco recipe we learned to make in Italy.’ ”

“Hey, I’m planning on saying that very sort of thing. Except gnocchi.”

“Don’t even go there, Tom.”

“I like the Russos.” He hastened to return to the subject at hand. “Although they don’t seem to like each other at the moment.”

“I agree. Something’s going on there. I get the feeling this is make-or-break time, as in stay together or head for divorce court. Not so with the Californians, that’s for sure.”

“Nope. Sky is quite the babe. He’d be nuts to leave her.”

“Hold on, Reverend!”

“I can look, can’t I? And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Jack.”

“Not my type.”

They stopped for a moment while Faith demonstrated what her type was and then continued toward the house. She realized she hadn’t told Tom about overhearing Hattie and Sally Culver on the terrace in Rome. The exchange about it being a fine time to get scruples and being paid. It was impossible to tell which woman had been speaking even now after meeting them. She relayed the experience, and Tom thought she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

“Or however you say it in Italian. I’m thinking we should take some conversation classes when we get back. But, Faith, the Culvers are not a mystery. I think you’re right and they’re probably just trying to get around the customs limits. Not right, but not such a big deal. Nothing too criminal.”

He didn’t need to spell it out. It wasn’t murder.

When she didn’t say anything, he stopped and faced her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“I know you like to believe that there are secrets lurking everywhere, secret secrets and secret crimes. The people here are just your average multinational gathering of folks with stuff. Everyone has stuff, but there’s nothing deep or dark at Cucina della Rossi.”

He slid his hands down and embraced her, saying softly, “I’ve come too close to losing you too often. This last business in New York was the worst. It’s time to stop.” Stepping away, he smiled. “Now let’s pick up the pace a little. They may not have cleared away the breakfast things. I could do with another bite or two.”

Her husband could always do with another bite or two, Faith thought. She was slender now, but she knew that as she got older she’d be jealous of the Fairchild metabolism, watching Tom indulge as she counted her calories. He was right about stuff, though—everybody had it, unwanted baggage. And maybe he was right about stopping—not that she’d sought out any of her previous close calls. But he wasn’t right about secrets. In her experience, a group like this was hiding any number of things. Which reminded her. Goth Girl, a disguise?

“We forgot Olivia,” Faith said. “I think she’s going to grow on me. And no, not like mold, which is what her dark appearance suggests. The girl has to be a cook, really good amateur or pro. She’s the real deal. I can always tell.”

“So that’s everyone,” Tom said. “Our companions in whisks.”

When had he developed this penchant for terrible jokes and puns? Faith wondered. Pretty soon he’d be regaling the group with “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a trattoria” or the like. She’d have to be vigilant and nip this in the bud.

They could see the roof of the Rossis’ house, shining brightly as the sun hit it, but they were closer to another roof of an even larger place. Was it the neighbor, Jean-Luc’s? Which reminded Faith they’d left him out.

“What about neighbor Luke? He’s part of the class,” Faith said. “You’ve spent more time with him than I have. He certainly seems to know his wines—and grappa.” She’d been asleep but woke up as Tom slipped under the covers last night. When he’d kissed her, there was a faint trace of the strong afterdinner drink on his lips. Grappa was distilled from pomace—the skins, pulp, seeds, and stems left after the grapes had been pressed. Waste not, want not. Faith had had the feeling the men hadn’t put the grappa in their espresso, one of the ways she liked it, but in the small bulb-shaped glasses she’d seen on the sideboard in the dining room with a refill or two.

“Very pleasant guy, and yes, he’s like those Frenchmen who can tell you what side of the hill the grapes were growing on and whether there was too much or too little rain that year just by glancing at the label on the bottle. He really does seem more Italian, though. Hard to say why. Maybe because when he speaks it, he sounds so fluent.”

Faith had noticed his accent, too—that there wasn’t an accent.

“He was telling us,” Tom went on, “about the way everyone around here finds remains of Roman mosaics and other objects when they dig down for foundations, make a new road, or plow up a field. A treasure hunt.”

“And did he do that? Find something?”

“He’s been excavating around an old well at a site on his property and has found some pottery shards and glass he thinks date back to the Romans. He wants to take down some outbuildings that aren’t historic, sheepfolds and a pigsty, an oasthouse—you know, for hops—that are too far from the villa to be used for guests or a garage. We were talking a lot about it because Gianni is eager for him to get going. He wants to lease the land to expand his vineyard, but Luke is waiting to do it with a team of archaeologists.”

“He really expects to find something?”

“Absolutely. And for some reason, Etruscan, not Roman. Although since we’re right in the heart of Etruscan civilization—‘Tuscany’ comes from the Roman word ‘Tusci,’ which is what they called them—it makes sense that he has hopes.”

“All I know about the Etruscans is that they were very enlightened when it came to women and produced all that wonderful art, especially those terra-cotta sarcophagi. I don’t know whether it’s in a museum near here, but I’d love to see the one with the life-size smiling couple reclining in each other’s arms. She’s feeding him a little tidbit, maybe bread dipped in acacia honey. And the frescoes—everyone’s playing an instrument or dancing. Happy people. It will be interesting to hear more about why Luke thinks there’s a site in his backyard.”

“I think the buildings are much farther away than his backyard. He owns a lot of acreage, but—”

Whatever Tom was about to say was halted by an argument that was occurring on the front terrace by the drive. They were walking right into the middle of it, although at the moment, the argument was one-sided. Constance Nashe was making her points loud and clear; the Rossis were trying in vain to get a word in edgewise. The other students were in the van, watching the scene unfold through the open windows.

“I specifically informed you that Roderick and I had rented a car so we could make our own way. Now, there is no more to be said. We will meet you at the market.”

Francesca looked distressed. She started to say something, but Constance actually held up her hand like a traffic cop.

“Come, Roderick.”

Gianni stepped in front of them. Faith could tell he was ready to explode. “We are only trying to make things pleasant”—he spat out the word—“for you, Mr. and Mrs. Nashe. It is extremely difficult to park in Florence. You need a special permit to drive in the center. You will find nothing within walking distance of the Central Market and will miss the various vendors we have arranged for you to meet with tastings of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, wine, cheese, sausages, fruits, and other things.”

Faith had the feeling he was trying to overwhelm them with images, tempting images.

It wasn’t working.

Constance moved her fingers from cop to a dismissive wave. “We shall have no trouble parking.”

“But we will be meeting to come back to prepare tonight’s meal later this afternoon. You do not need your car.”

“We may take a little run up to Fiesole. We know Florence.”

Faith had to turn away to hide her smile. The way Constance said “know” made the glorious city sound like a must miss, or a déclassé destination akin to Blackpool in Britain or Branson in the United States. Not our sort of thing. And in any case, something that had been crossed off their list.

Francesca said something softly, and Gianni stepped back.

“Of course you must do as you like. We will be at Baroni for some of the tastings at ten o’clock. It is easy to find the Baronis. Ask any of the other merchants for Paola and Alessandro.”

Constance gave a regal nod and walked off to what Faith now realized was their car, a small white Fiat that had been there yesterday, too, which explained how the Nashes arrived before the others. Faith also realized she hadn’t heard Roderick say much of anything since she’d met him except “Yes, I’d like another” when the wine was being poured.

Tom and Faith got into the van and she moved to the rear, taking a seat next to Olivia.

“Bitch,” the girl said and then hastily amended her expletive. “Not you, Mrs. Fairchild, her.”

It was hard to disagree.

While Gianni drove, Francesca provided the running commentary, pointing out Lake Trasimeno in the far distance and other sights. Gianni’s observations had been a bit livelier and more colorful, but Faith was glad his eyes were now firmly fixed on the twisting road. She’d heard about Italian drivers and was now living it. Cars, trucks, even buses sped past them on blind curves horns blaring, which she hoped was a way to alert the oncoming traffic but thought was more likely a declaration of another sort.

She leaned back and thought about her fellow students. What were the Nashes doing in a class like this? When she’d first written about their plans, Francesca had described Cucina della Rossi as aiming somewhere between agritourism and luxe. They wanted to offer guests more than comfortable accommodations, which is why they’d invested in the pool and other amenities—each room was en suite—but they weren’t in a class with some of the cooking schools located in grand castellos and palazzos with everything from Wi-Fi to indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, stables, a spa, and yes, by the way, a kitchen where guests could learn to dice an onion or maybe make pesto. Francesca and Gianni wanted to attract people who were not just passionate about food but also interested in where it came from, starting the first day with the large market in Florence and then other outings closer to home visiting small producers and touring wineries. Francesca had reminded Faith in one letter that the Slow Food movement, which emphasized, among other ideas, the use of local, traditional foods, began in Italy before spreading like wildfire internationally. It was Carlo Petrini, taking a stand in the 1980s against a McDonald’s at the foot of the Spanish Steps, who started it. She’d told Faith that she and Gianni wanted their school to reflect these values—it was the way they ate, the way their families always had. Faith agreed heartily. Fast food not only tasted horrible but also was horrible for you. Francesca didn’t have to deal with a drive-through in her village, nor was there one in Aleford, but the town was surrounded by them. Until she realized she could buy the toy and not the meal, Faith had had a struggle keeping Ben and Amy away from the siren call of that oxymoron, the Happy Meal.

But while they might not be Wimpy aficionados, the Nashes didn’t strike her as acolytes of Prince Charles either, although Constance bore more than a passing resemblance to Camilla. Why weren’t they at one of the multistarred spots, if only to be able to name-drop once they were back in England—“Dear Lorenzo—a Medici, you know” and so forth? Maybe it was cost. Hard to tell with those tweeds. Then again, Surrey was a wealthy locale.

She could hear the Culvers chatting in the seat in front of her. For a moment she thought about her own aunt, Aunt Chat, but she wasn’t traveling much these days, pleading old age, which gave Faith a pang. Her mother loved to travel, though, and she thought how much fun it would be to do something like this together, but reality quickly intruded. Jane Sibley’s idea of a perfect dinner was a nice piece of fish and a salad or alternatively a nice salad and a piece of chicken. Faith’s father never seemed to notice what was on his plate, whether due to a lack of interest the invariable fare had produced over the years or because his thoughts were elsewhere—on divine, not mortal, matters—she did not know. She did know that Jane was more likely to look forward to a root canal than an epicurean holiday like this one. Now shoe shopping in foreign locales was another matter.

She tuned in to what the Culvers were talking about. It wasn’t shoes, but it was shopping.

“As soon as we finish with the group,” Hattie said, “we hit the jewelry stores on the Ponte Vecchio and go find the place for gloves on the other side. Madova, I’m pretty sure that’s the name. Maggie Sue Crawford told me about it and you know how particular she is.”

Faith had a friend who’d grown up in New Orleans who’d told her that even though it happened almost fifty years ago, people were still talking about the fact that Lynda Bird Johnson had worn nylon gloves not kid to a Mardi Gras ball. Gloves apparently still mattered in Louisiana.

They were coming into the city and Francesca was giving a brief history of the market and the area.

“The Mercato Centrale was part of what we would now call ‘urban renewal’ that took place in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. The Mercato Vecchio, the Old Market, was demolished to create the Piazza della Repubblica and relocated to what had been a very poor area of the city, the San Lorenzo quarter. You will see how large the market is, a city block. For its time, the building was very high-tech. The architect modeled it on a cast-iron and glass galleria he had built in Milan. If you can tear yourselves away from looking at the food, there is much beautiful ornamental ironwork, and of course the two stories are filled with natural light from the windows and the ceiling. After we visit some of the stalls, I would encourage you to explore on your own, and you may also want to visit the outside ones, very different, that sell typical Florentine souvenirs—decorative wooden boxes, scarves, leather goods. If you want suggestions for specific shops for these items and others elsewhere in Florence, just ask me. I can show you on your maps. I have a friend, Sylvia, who sells high-quality, Italian silk ties and scarves at good prices in the Mercato Nuovo near the Palazzo Vecchio, the city hall, where the copy of Michelangelo’s David stands outside. Just say to any vendor, ‘Dove Sylvia?’ and tell her you are my friend. You may know of this market because of Il Porcellino, the famous brass statue of a large piglet—a copy there now like the David—but the saying is that if you rub Il Porcellino’s snout, you will return to Florence. It is very shiny.”

“Well, I’ll give it a pat,” Sally said. “I’m already in love with Florence and I definitely love anything pork, especially barbecued. But if we keep going to all these places with customs like this, I may never see the rest of the world. I tossed a coin over my shoulder in Rome, so I have to go back there, too.”

Francesca laughed. “I think there are many things like that in many countries. There are several opinions about throwing coins in the Trevi Fountain. Some say you have to throw with your right hand over your left shoulder, facing away; others that it doesn’t matter how you do it. Also they say if you throw two coins, you will have a new romance, and three means marriage. I think it was because of an old movie.”

“Yes,” Terry Russo said. “I love it—Three Coins in the Fountain.” She started to hum the song, made famous by Sinatra.

“Cool it,” Len said.

She flushed. “Maybe I should have thrown in more than one,” Faith heard her mutter. Fortunately they had arrived at their destination, so the group was spared further bickering from the Russos.

“Andiamo, we’re here!” Francesca said. “It is always very crowded both inside and outside the market, so mind your personal belongings.”

Gianni pulled the van over and everyone got out. He told the group he would pick them up at the same spot at three o’clock. Now he would park a ways off, return to shop with them, and then he and Francesca would bring the food back to the house while the students toured on their own.

As they passed what seemed like miles of merchandise outdoors—Faith wondered how much was from Italy and how much from China—Francesca pointed out the nearby Basilica of San Lorenzo.

“You may be surprised by how plain it looks, since it was the church of the Medicis.”

Faith had been expecting something more elaborate than the crude-looking, unfinished brick facade. She hadn’t had time to read up on Florence, just as she hadn’t about Rome. Freddy would approve, she thought, and resolved to leave her guidebook in her purse. Besides, Francesca was proving to be an extremely adequate source.

“Brunelleschi designed the basilica, which replaced a smaller Romanesque church. Later Michelangelo was commissioned to complete the front. He spent three years searching the quarries for the right stone for the statues and columns he’d planned, but the work was postponed and finally abandoned when the then pope, one of the Medici popes, wanted to use cheaper marble from nearby and Michelangelo refused.

“I like the way the outside looks, although some people say it’s a biscotti that has been overcooked. Now there is a proposal by the mayor to finish it. All the plans, the drawings have been saved. He is looking for big money sponsors, hard to find these days, but you never know. It could happen—five hundred years later what Michelangelo intended would be completed. In any case, you will see a great contrast with the interior, the final resting place for the family. Michelangelo’s Medici tombs are very beautiful and very elaborate. They are very sad, too, not because of Lorenzo’s and Giuliano’s deaths, but because the artist was worn-out and ill when he did them. Maybe all that arguing with the pope. The last member of the family to rule, Anna Maria Ludovica de’ Medici, continued to adorn the inside and is buried with all her ancestors, but with her, it ended. Still we feel their presence all around us. This is a favorite place of mine, since I am often here at the mercato. Now I am talking too much! No more wasting time! It has been open since seven!”

If the market at the Campo de’ Fiori in Rome had been like the Elysian Fields, then, Faith thought, Florence’s Mercato Centrale was like walking into Ali Baba’s cave; except better, since the riches were edible.

Having parked, Gianni joined them, and they followed the Rossis down the aisles, where they were warmly greeted by the various merchants. Soon the group was sampling slices of ripe melon, fresh figs, sips of wine, and bites of cheeses. Faith recalled the feeling of being drunk on Rome, and now she felt high on the flavors and atmosphere of what was undoubtedly the best market she’d ever visited. Upstairs and down, the wares were displayed like jewels, each fruit and vegetable polished in their crates, the fish and meat temptingly spread out in the refrigerated cases. A straw porcellino hung over the counter offering his products, and they stopped to taste shavings of proscuitto, pancetta, salamis, and soppressatas. Faith’s favorite was finocchiona, strongly flavored salami with fennel seeds, which the group selected with some prosciutto crudo for panini and to wrap around grissini, the thin bread sticks, for a quick snack or antipasto. The Rossis had planned a picnic alfresco for Wednesday’s trip to Montepulciano, and they were picking up supplies for that along with what they’d need to make dinner tonight.

Francesca led them to her favorite mushroom stand and urged them to get dried porcini, which the Baronis, the next stop, would shrink-wrap for them. The aroma was again nothing short of intoxicating, and Faith knew she’d be sorry if she didn’t take any home. The Culvers bought some, too.

They had passed numerous displays of zucchini blossoms and even to Faith’s educated eye, they all looked fine, but Francesca didn’t stop until she reached a spot tucked into a corner presided over by an elderly man wearing a bright purple sweater and matching cap that proclaimed his allegiance to the Florentine football team—soccer loyalties were sacred in Italy, Faith knew. He stepped into the aisle and kissed Francesca on both cheeks. “Ciao, bella.”

She beamed and they exchanged a few words in rapid Italian before she turned back to the group.

“For Il Secondo tonight I thought we would do porchetta stuffed with zucchini blossoms, some fennel, herbs, garlic, of course, and maybe figs. Porchetta is a boneless pork roast—you will use a boneless pork shoulder to duplicate it at home. My friend Antonio here will supply the fennel bulbs and the blossoms. We’ll get extra flowers to stuff with ricotta and fry for an antipasto.”

“It’s the male flowers that we have to use, right?” Sally Culver said. “I mean I think I heard something about this somewhere.”

Curiouser and curiouser, Faith thought. Either the woman was watching a hell of a lot of the Food Network or she knew a hell of a lot more about food and cooking than she wanted people to know.

Francesca nodded. “That’s right. The females have a little bulge at the base of the flower that will become the squash, so we don’t want to pick those or we won’t be able to make frittatas and other dishes! She needs the males—they have a regular stem—to pollinate, so we have to leave some, but we can pick most of the others. If we don’t they just dry up and fall off.”

“Sounds familiar,” Terry Russo said with a venomous glance at her husband, who walked off toward a stand selling tripe sandwiches, returning with just one, which he proceeded to eat with gusto virtually in her face.

Francesca bought the produce, adding several varieties of tomatoes and ceci, chickpeas, that she told them they might use today and if not, definitely tomorrow, for salad. The lettuce would come from the Rossis’ garden, as would the herbs.

The Nashes were waiting for everyone at Baroni Alimentari. Faith was very glad it was a few minutes before ten o’clock, giving the couple no cause to complain of the group’s tardiness. She was beginning to regard Constance Nashe as a sort of horrible headmistress like Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Miss Minchin in A Little Princess. No cake for you.

They were all here now except for Luke, Jean-Luc, who had stayed home. Coming to the mercato, and Florence itself, was an everyday occurrence for him.

Francesca introduced the group to the Baronis, and soon Paola, a lively, striking brunette, was lining up samples of Parmesan cheese.

“Wow!” Tom said. “Which one is this?”

“That is the Parmesan that has been aged in wine,” Paola told them. “The other is the fresh Parmesan. A big difference, no?”

“A big difference, yes,” Tom said. “I want them all.”

“Try the fresh one with a drop of this balsamic vinegar. The real kind, from Modena. I will give you tastes of a number of different ones. The flavor of the vinegar depends on the age, to be sure, but also the kind of wood used to make the barrels.”

Faith noticed that as soon as they entered the market, the Culvers were once more taking pictures of all the food in sight. Olivia seemed just as enthusiastic, or what passed as such for her, but wasn’t taking many photos, instead jotting things down on her phone. Her fingers flew. Faith was reminded of the way Ben and his friends texted, members of the Thumb Tribe. Texting even when a few feet away from one another.

So far Jack and Sky had trailed behind everyone but were now getting into the tastings. They stopped holding hands long enough to sample the vinegars and then the olive oils.

“Who would have thought they would taste so different. I mean E-V-O-O is E-V-O-O, I always thought,” Sky said, sounding more than a little like Rachael Ray.

Faith had made a small pile on the counter in front of Paola—some Malpighi Saporoso balsamic vinegar, she could already taste it on the strawberries they’d pick this summer; several kinds of honey, including acacia and fennel; tubes of black and white truffle paste; and cards with the Baroni Web site, so she could get more of everything when she was home. Francesca, she noticed, was busy buying cheese, including several kinds of pecorino, that delicious Italian sheep cheese. Another tasting back at Cucina della Rossi?

They said arrivederci to Alessandro and Paola, as well as the Rossis, who were lingering to talk with their friends. Once outside the market, the Fairchilds, Olivia, and the Russos headed for San Lorenzo. Faith presumed the Culvers were going straight to the Ponte Vecchio, maybe stopping to find Sylvia and her scarves on the way. Sky and Jack left with a “See you later” and headed toward the center of town—maybe to get a room, who knew? The Nashes hadn’t had much time in the market, but it was apparently not of sufficient interest to capture their further attention and they left also—without a “See you later.”

After an hour in San Lorenzo, Tom turned to Faith and said, “It’s too much for now and I’m hungry.”

She nodded in agreement. Donatello’s bronze pulpits with the anguish of the Crucifixion and other scenes portrayed in realistic bas-reliefs; Michelangelo’s massive somber figures on the tombs—Dusk and Dawn, Night and Day; and the interior’s stark white walls and gray stone, pietra serena, were overpowering. They had been walking in silence, oblivious of other tourists and even of each other. She had come back with a start at his words.

“Yes, we need to go outside. And yes, it’s time to eat.”

Francesca had included a number of suggestions in the packet for all kinds of places for food ranging from gelato to a full-course meal. They were not far from one of them, Cantinetta del Verrazzano. It sounded perfect from the Rossis’ description—one side a coffee bar and bakery—pasticceria—the other a wine bar with Chianti from the family’s vineyards. A place to stop in for a quick bite, but not too fast.

“I like the Verrazano Bridge, so let’s give it a try,” Faith said.

They had missed the lunch rush and were able to get a table near the enormous, venerable wood-burning oven. The smell of freshly baked bread was enticing.

Standing at the display cases, Tom said, “I think I want one of everything, but that one for dessert definitely.” He pointed to an almond-studded torta della nonna, dusted with plenty of powdered sugar. “I loved her dearly, but I’m afraid my grandmother’s gingerbread, which tended to be a bit heavy, wouldn’t have stood a chance in any Italian grandmother Bake-Offs.”

Because you can never have too many artichokes, too many zucchini blossoms, or too many truffles, Faith completed their order by selecting two kinds of pizza topped with the flowers and carciofi plus a hefty wedge of focaccia made with chickpea flour and stuffed with prosciutto, ricotta, and shaved white truffles. They decided to sample the Verrazzano Rosso Chianti, which turned out to be as excellent a choice as the rest of the menu. By the time they left the wood-paneled, marble space, they felt as if it had become their “nabe,” everyone had been so friendly—pressing some biscotti on them when they left to eat as they roamed the city.

“Italians are so nice,” Faith said. “We need to come back with Ben and Amy.”

“Absolutely,” Tom said. “But this trip it’s just you and me, kid.”

However, when they reached the Piazza del Duomo, they decided to separate for a while. Faith knew Tom would be totally bored by the Ferragamo shoe museum and store and the window-shopping she wanted to do on the rest of Via Tornabuoni. She also thought she’d try to find some little gifts for Amy—maybe something covered with the marbleized paper so typical of Firenze.

“Go on,” Tom said. “I want to gaze on Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise on the Baptistery right here and then sit doing nothing at all and people watch. Why don’t we meet at three back where Gianni dropped us off?”

The Gates of Paradise, copies now, but burnished to soft gold, reminded Faith she wanted to check out the jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio, too. You never knew what you might find . . .

“Perfect. Give me a kiss and I’ll see you later.”

On the way to Via Tornabuoni, she passed a farmacia and ducked in. How could she not enter a place with such pretty bottles of fragrance and soaps in the window—and a place that looked as if it had been in the same spot since medieval times, surviving the city’s man-made and natural disasters: the Arno flooding, fires, pestilence, Savonarola, the occupation during World War II?

Another friendly Italian immediately greeted her and showed her the testers for fragrances, lotions, and soaps made there. The bottles had labels decorated with famous Florentine paintings, and each sported a different-colored grosgrain ribbon tied around its top. The combinations were intriguing: Rose and Blackberry, Camellia and Coriander, Olive and Sunflower, Fig and Poppy. They smelled as luscious as they sounded. The perfect gift for Amy, and maybe her mother-in-law, too. Marian Fairchild, mainstay of her garden club, The Evergreens, would love the notion of wearing the contents of her trug on her person. The young woman rang Faith’s purchases up and filled the bag with samples, which Amy would be as excited to get as the perfume.

Pleased with herself, Faith decided not to consult the map and started walking toward where she thought Ferragamo was, ending up first at the Uffizi and then the riverbank. She followed it toward the Ponte Vecchio, which was in sight, happy the Germans had not blown it up when they retreated from the city, the only bridge spared. Why didn’t they destroy it? Someone in charge had realized what it would mean to demolish the ancient span, parts of which had withstood floods and other invasions since the fourteenth century? She’d have to ask the Rossis.

She took a quick look at the glittering stalls lining the bridge, giving a sigh at a trio of gold mesh bracelets—a deep wishful sigh—and then felt a shiver, looking at another offering—who would buy one of these copies of Lucrezia Borgia’s poison ring and why? She crossed back and actually found herself on Via Tornabuoni after only a few turns.

Florence was very different from Rome, not as exuberant. It felt older, although it wasn’t; the streets were narrow, the buildings looming over them obscuring the sky. There was less open space, and the colors were more sepia and of course, pietra serena. It was beautiful, but a very different kind of beautiful.

The weather had been warm when they stepped out of the market, even warmer when they left San Lorenzo. The wine at lunch had added to the temperature, and now it was almost too hot. Before she went into Ferragamo, she needed to get something cold to drink. Some cold San Pellegrino. Limonata or, better, aranciate—orangeade. There was a cart near the end of the street and she made her way toward it. A man had just purchased something, and when he turned around, Faith realized it was Jack. She smiled and started to greet him. He smiled in return and came toward her, but then the expression on his face turned to pure horror. She stopped, amazed. What could be wrong? The street was filled with tourists. Nothing out of the ordinary. She didn’t think there was anything about herself that could be causing his reaction. Maybe some powdered sugar from lunch, but nothing that would provoke what was now clear panic. He looked frantically to his right and left, then rushed toward her. He threw an arm around her shoulders and abruptly pulled her into the doorway of a shop that had gone out of business.

“I’ll explain later,” he said and put both arms around her, burying his head against her in an amorous embrace.

She gasped and was so astonished she didn’t move. If she’d thought about something like this happening on the trip—and maybe she had—she’d pictured someone who looked like Marcello Mastroianni not Malibu Ken.

“Jack,” she managed to say. “Jack, what . . .”

“Sssh,” he said, raising his head a few inches to peer over her shoulder.

“Jack,” she repeated and gave him a slight push. She didn’t want to offend the man, but really . . . There was also the fact that they’d be cooking, and living, together for the rest of the week.

“It’s okay,” he said, straightening up and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “An old college buddy of mine was leaving one of the shops and seemed to be coming this way. He’s gone now. He was, and is, a total jerk. If he saw me there’d be no way Sky and I could escape having to get together with him and his wife, who is even worse. I am truly grateful to you, Faith—and very sorry. I cannot imagine what you thought, but I can assure you I do not go around tackling females, even pretty ones like you, on the spur of the moment. This was an emergency.”

He had a charming grin. Very charming.

Faith didn’t believe his story for a New York minute. There were any number of excuses he could use to get out of having dinner or whatever with the couple—he and Sky were leaving Florence that afternoon sprang first to mind. How would the couple know otherwise? No, what was more likely was that this was an old college—or other time of Jack’s life—buddy to whom he either owed money or had cheated. Or, most likely, a buddy whose girl Jack had poached. Then she realized she didn’t know what Jack, or Sky, did for a living in LA. The man could be a more recent acquaintance—business deal gone sour?

“Let me buy you a cold drink. That’s where you were headed, right?” She quickly decided a cold drink right now would make up for it, and also decided to put the whole thing out of her mind. What happened on the Via Tornabuoni . . .

“Yes,” she answered. “And then I’m headed for Ferragamo. Not Tom’s thing.”

She still thought it politic to mention her husband.

“Not mine either, and that’s where Sky is. Maybe you can pry her loose. This could turn out to be the most expensive trip we’ve ever taken, what with all these vowel endings—Prada, Valentino, Armani, Gucci.”

Faith laughed and followed him to the stand, where she gratefully accepted a cold aranciate.

It was getting close to three. Faith had been able to pry Sky away from the shoes earlier but now found herself lingering, completely captivated not just by the finished products for sale but also by the exhibits in the museo of the lasts and shoes for all those famous feet—Marilyn Monroe’s high-heeled spectator pumps for Some Like It Hot, Audrey Hepburn’s ballerina flats, which Faith’s mother said were all anyone wore when she was a teenager, Rita Hayworth’s wedges. Equally fascinating were the drawings and photographs that accompanied the displays. Salvatore Ferragamo’s shoes were works of art, dazzling colors, styles reflecting the surrealists, other artists, and the past—all the way back to the gladiators, although they would have been severely challenged attacking the Christians in the high-heeled sandals they’d inspired. She bought some postcards for her mother—shoes were out of the question. The ones Marilyn had worn that sold for $39.95 in 1961 would set Faith back $1,200 now.

She rushed back through the streets, using the map, and when she got to the meeting place outside the market, she turned out to be early. There was only one person there—Terry Russo, who was carrying some shopping bags. Faith presumed the couple had separated for the same reason she and Tom had, but as she drew closer she wasn’t sure that the decision had been mutually agreeable. The woman had been crying, crying a lot. Her mascara had run, giving her a look more at home on Olivia.

“Hi,” Faith said. “Did you find some nice things? Any bargains?”

Terry dabbed her eyes with a sodden Kleenex, which made things worse, but Faith was not about to comment.

“The woman—Sylvia—Francesca mentioned was great. I got a bunch of scarves. She told me which people to go to for other stuff and I’ve pretty much done all my Christmas shopping—lots of those leather boxes and picture frames.”

Faith always intended to shop early, but somehow Thanksgiving invariably arrived with her list still in her desk drawer and still blank. Maybe she should bring some gifts back, too.

“I guess we’re the first,” Faith said. “Tom isn’t much of a shopper, so he decided to hang out near the Duomo. Len, too?”

“Len isn’t much of an anything,” Terry said bitterly and lapsed into silence. Then she dug into one of her bags and pulled out a small wooden Pinocchio key chain, one of the ones with a very long nose. “I got this for my husband.”

What to say? TMI, Faith thought to herself, wishing desperately that some of the others would arrive. Someone, anyone.

Her wish was granted and soon everyone except Olivia and Tom had gathered on the sidewalk. Gianni pulled up just as Olivia joined them. For a moment Faith didn’t recognize her. Somewhere during the time apart she’d found a sink and thoroughly washed her face. Her hair was combed back, and she’d also bought a long rose-colored scarf that was now wrapped around her neck. Yes, she still had multiple piercings—ears, one eyebrow, and a tiny stud in one nostril, but she looked, well, normal, and very pretty.

But where was Tom? He’d been raised in the rigorous Fairchild School of Punctuality. She still struggled to make him understand that a dinner invitation for seven o’clock did not mean standing on the host’s doorstep at 6:59 with one’s finger poised over the bell, even after repeated episodes over the years with hosts still in the shower, putting out hors d’oeuvres, and one notable occasion when their hosts hadn’t arrived yet themselves.

They all got in the van.

“Does Tom have a phone with him?” Gianni asked. “Maybe we should call him.”

Faith shook her head. Both their phones were packed in their luggage. Now that they were at Cucina della Rossi, a number that everyone had from their itinerary, Tom had said they didn’t need them. Faith suspected this was to keep her from sneaking in a call to her sister, but she saw his point and had agreed.

“This isn’t at all like him. I’m sure he’ll be here any moment,” she said.

And there he was, sprinting toward them, much to her relief.

“Sorry, everyone,” he said, climbing into the van. He sounded out of breath. “Thanks for waiting, Gianni.”

“Prego,” he said. “No problem, mio amico.”

Tom slid into the empty seat next to Faith.

She started to ask him where he had been, but before she could, he leaned over and whispered urgently in her ear, “I saw the man who attacked Freddy, but I lost him.”

“No!” She gasped.

Tom nodded gravely. “And Olivia was with him.”