The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 7





Normally there were few things Faith Fairchild liked better than seeing other people’s houses. She shared this trait with her mother-in-law, who admitted as well to a secret passion for looking into a home’s lighted rooms at night—“just like watching a play.” Together they had enjoyed many a house tour, and Fairchild Realty, the family business, had provided additional fodder. Faith often thought she should have gone into real estate herself, although recently a Realtor friend had pointed out that there was much more to it than opening closet doors, and some of it not so much fun.

Now, in one of the most spectacular houses she had ever been in—they were on their way to a wing that included a screening room and home gym—Faith might just as well have been viewing the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

How did Freddy’s notebook get from Rome to Luke’s house? Her immediate thought was that the Frenchman had to be involved in Freddy’s death, but as she walked blindly behind the others it occurred to her that this could be a case of hiding in plain sight. She had mentioned Freddy’s name last night at dinner, she realized, thereby establishing the relationship. Someone, say Olivia, might not have known the connection and, knowing it now, decided to quickly get rid of anything linking herself to the dead man, especially since she had been spotted with the killer. Granted it hadn’t been in Olivia’s room when Faith had searched it, but the young woman had been wearing those pants with all the pockets down in the kitchen and the notebook was small, easy to fit in one. Why not throw the book into a field or the trash? Things like this often had a way of inconveniently turning up again. And besides, putting it on someone else’s desk where Faith or Tom would surely see it this morning pointed a finger another way.

But how? Or rather when?

They were climbing a staircase to the second floor. Faith had a fleeting impression of walls the color of polenta passing by as her thoughts churned. In fact, any one of the people here could have done it. When they’d arrived, Luke had indicated a door and said if anyone needed a bathroom, that was the closest to where they would be lunching. It was next to the library. Easy enough to excuse oneself and slip the notebook onto the desk while ostensibly using the facilities. And, Faith thought back, everyone had. Whether from necessity or curiosity, each guest save Faith herself had made use of the bathroom before sitting down to lunch or during it, Len Russo going so far as to announce, “Have to see a man about a horse,” before heading indoors.

They were all at the hotel in Rome. They were all here. They were all suspects.

She realized that Terry Russo was tugging at her elbow. “I know it’s spectacular, but we’re leaving now.”

Faith had been standing stock-still, lost in thought. She focused on the room. They’d been in and out of bedrooms and baths—she’d registered that much—but this was undoubtably the master, and it was spectacular. One of the largest beds she’d ever seen was set against a wall decorated with another trompe l’oeil fresco, this one floor to ceiling. In between Corinthian columns cerulean blue swags hung above a series of vistas, like those in the background of Renaissance paintings—tiny hill towns, misty embankments, shimmering lakes. The bed itself was covered with a white spread so pristine that Faith imagined someone whose only job was to wash and then iron it in situ every day.

“Are you okay? I mean you seem a little out of it,” Terry asked anxiously, steering Faith out of the room and into the adjoining one.

“I’m fine. The heat sometimes gets to me,” she said.

Terry looked skeptical. The temperature inside the house was almost too cool. Possibly central air or just the thick several-hundred-year-old walls. “Oh my God!” Terry said. It was her turn to stop in her tracks.

Faith, now tuned in to her surroundings, was tempted to echo the woman’s words.

They were in the master bath to end all master baths. A master bath easily as big as the First Parish parsonage’s entire downstairs. The fixtures were the most twenty-first century she’d ever seen: the high-tech Japanese toilet that did everything for you except the actual act of elimination; as well as a glass-enclosed shower large enough for two, or even three, with a rain forest showerhead plus jets that she’d read about—they misted parts of the entire body with one’s preferred scents; and then the tub itself, sunken of course, and carved from Romano travertine. She’d seen a photo of a similar one in a suite at the Rome Cavalieri in her wanderings online looking at hotels before Francesca had sent the information on the hotel where they’d stayed. Like the luxury hotel, there was a large picture window in this bath. Instead of St. Peter’s, Luke’s seemed to overlook all of Tuscany. And a Swarovski crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. But it wasn’t the view, the fixtures, the stone, the tile work, not even the fireplace, but the aquarium that wrapped around the bathtub on three sides, extending all the way to the top of the room, that took Faith’s breath away. It was alive with exotic fish and gently swaying aquatic plants, yet what made it so extraordinary was the concave glass. Luxuriating in the tub, you’d feel as if you were immersed in a tropical sea.

“When can I move in?” Terry said.

Luke laughed. “You are welcome anytime. I admit this room is over-the-top, but ever since I was a little boy, I’ve dreamed of being a merman and this is the closest I’ll get.”

The group left quietly to change places with the others, who had progressed to coffee. The bathroom had literally left them speechless.

As usual, Jack and Sky had stayed together. Tom jumped up and walked into the house with them. A threesome. Not a three-way, surely! Suddenly Faith was back at the window in her room. Sky was wearing a sundress now that didn’t cover much more than her bikini had.

But her thoughts quickly went back to the notebook sitting so tantalizingly near, and she wondered whether Tom would notice it, too. Or did he only have eyes for something, or someone, else?

One thing was cheering her up though. Luke had said they were “welcome anytime.” He may have been talking about a soak in his bathtub, but Faith was choosing to interpret it as a more general invitation—and one she intended to take him up on just as soon as she made sure he wasn’t home.

Compartmentalize, Faith told herself. Create some mental storage containers, fill them up, and seal the doors. And do it now. What was that quote, something like “We may pass this way but once”? And who knew when she’d pass the breathtaking scene outside again—it would be a crime to miss it. The van seemed to be climbing to the top of the world and as the road wound ever higher, the view of the valley below became more enchanting. The vineyards and olive groves had begun as well-defined straight lines, lush green with spots of color from the wild yellow broom and red poppies. And now it was all one soft color, like layers of organdy in pale hues. This was her dream trip after all, she reminded herself, taking her husband’s hand and kissing it.

Once again Francesca was providing the commentary while Gianni drove.

“The first place we will visit is a small family-owned vineyard, as we are, except they bottle their grapes themselves. We hope to do that someday, but at the present we are selling them to a cooperative. As you know, we are in the Chianti Classico region, which has a very long history and we think produces the best wine in the world.”

“What kind of grapes is this place growing and when do they harvest?” Hattie asked, pencil and pad in hand.

“Like us, the Sangiovese variety, which matures in early October. The grape harvest, La Vendemmia, is a very special time in Chianti, and it is something no one who loves wine should miss. All the villages have festas of some sort. You may know the most famous one in Impruneta, La Festa dell’Uva, a huge all-day celebration of the uva, the grape!”

“I was there last year,” Luke said. “I’ll bring my photos over tonight for you to see if you like. Parades with floats, amazing food, and wine flowing everywhere.”

“Sign me up,” Len said.

“To be a float?” his wife said archly.

He ignored her.

“Every year,” Francesca said, “especially these last years, we watch the weather as the grapes grow. It has been very dry, a major problem, which affects the sweetness of the grape, also the flavor of the olives.”

“Global warming,” Olivia said.

Ah, Faith thought, an environmentalist. But she was right. The signs of it were all over the world. Even in Aleford. No one could remember a spring coming as early as it had this year. Daffodils and forsythia had bloomed in March.

“So when do you harvest the olives?” Hattie asked.

“Our Tuscan valleys can have an earlier frost than other parts of the Mediterranean where olives are grown, so we must pick well before then, again mid-September to mid-October. Hard to predict now. But you will hear more about this later in the afternoon when we go to the mill.”

Gianni pulled up to the front of a farmhouse that was surrounded by several other buildings. They were in sharp contrast to Luke’s villa. The age of the structures may have been similar, but that was all. No statuary, no landscaping of any sort, except for several clay pots of geraniums. A man and a woman who both appeared to be in their forties came rushing out, greeting them with smiles and a hearty welcome in Italian that needed no translation. The tour did, however, and the Rossis and Luke served as interpreters. The vintner was telling them that grapes had been cultivated on their land since the Etruscans. Maybe before, he added with a shrug. Luke, whom Faith remembered had a particular interest in these early Italians, broke in to tell them that the Etruscans were, in fact, believed to be the people who happily introduced vinoculture to the area, bringing grapevines from Asia.

“You just have to look at what they left to know how much they enjoyed good food and wine—the banqueting frescoes and the pottery—wine casks and vases, urns for all kinds of food storage.”

“I don’t know about your Etruscans,” Roderick said, “but it was a Roman, Horace, who wrote ‘No poem was ever written by a drinker of water’ and I say amen to that and when are we going to get to the tasting of this stuff ?”

It was the most Faith had heard him say, and amid the laughter that greeted it, she wondered at the cause of his seemingly constant need for alcoholic fortification. Something in addition to being married to Constance? The farmers looked a bit puzzled at the sudden merriment, but after Gianni spoke to them, obviously translating, they burst into laughter, too, and waved everyone into the first building.

An hour later they climbed back into the van, sated not only from tasting the winery’s excellent Chiantis but also from samples of the pecorino they produced that had been served on a platter filled with olives, several kinds of salami, and bread.

“Maybe it’s the wine, but I think I’m beginning to understand Italian, and if I’m right I’ve committed us to returning in the fall to help pick grapes,” Tom said. “Well, the kids should enjoy it.”

“I hear it’s very hard work,” Faith said, amused at the way this tried-and-true New Englander was taking to la dolce vita. However, her amusement, as well as the pleasant time she’d just had, wasn’t keeping those storage container doors closed, especially the one containing Freddy’s notebook. Faith could keep the news to herself no longer. It was like a canker sore. Despite knowing it still hurts, your tongue keeps going there.

She and Tom were at the rear of the van, which was full. The Nashes had joined them for today. Even they wouldn’t have insisted they could make their own way to the places the group was visiting.

“Tom,” Faith whispered in his ear. Maybe the others would assume the anniversary couple was indulging in some sweet nothings. “I saw Freddy’s notebook on the desk in Luke’s library.”

He looked startled. “On Napoleon’s desk?”

She nodded. “A copy.”

“Of Freddy’s notebook?”

This was descending to a Who’s on First.

“No, the desk is a copy. The notebook is real.”

“How could you be sure?”

“The corner was bent just like Freddy’s and remember he spilled wine on it? The stain was there.”

“Honey, lots of people spill things on books and corners wear.” He stopped whispering and started nuzzling her ear instead. She sat up straight.

Her own husband didn’t believe her!

Whether to give them time to digest, and in some cases sober up, or because it made sense geographically, the next stop was the mill where the Rossis brought their olives to be pressed into oil.

Francesca put on her tour guide hat again.

“Like with the winemakers, there are large frantoii, olive pressers, and small ones. This small mill, as you will see, uses traditional methods to grind the olives and extract the oil. If you are interested, we can arrange for you to visit one of the big places where they are using modern machinery and computers. It’s very interesting to us, but since we have a relatively small harvest, we come here.”

“We would anyway,” Gianni said firmly.

Francesca smiled. “My husband is a little old-fashioned, but I do agree with him on this. It’s the way I’ve always known.”

The Culvers had their questions ready once more.

“Can you walk us through from when you pick to what we’re going to see?” Sally asked.

“Of course. We harvest in the fall again. Everything with the grapes and olives happens one after the other in Tuscany! It’s a rush to pick the olives because the timing has to be just right.”

Gianni picked up the thread. This was obviously a passion for him, even more than the grapes, Faith realized.

“It cannot be wet and the moon has to be right. You can’t stop in the middle, and we bring the olives to the mill in batches. If you store them until they are all picked, they lose their flavor. For us, the concern is the taste of our oil, the quality. It is nice to get a large yield of oil, but better to have less and make it the best. This is also why we pick by hand. The big growers use automatic rakes to shake the olives from the trees, or other machines to harvest them.”

“He treats his trees like children,” Francesca teased. “The way he prunes them, checks them for pests. I think he even sings to them. And by the way, the leaves of the olive tree do not change color or fall. It is an evergreen.”

“How much oil does each tree give you?” Sally asked.

Gianni was apparently not trusting his wife to answer and scowled at her playfully. “About one liter for each tree is a good estimate.”

Jack seemed surprised. “But that’s nothing! All that work for something the size of a bottle of Coke!”

“Worth it, I’d say, if the oil we’ve been enjoying is your own,” Terry said.

“It is and grazie,” Francesca said. “The color of the oil varies with the kind of olive, and ours is the typical Tuscan green, like the first grass growing in the spring. We are permitted to label it ‘extra virgin’ since it is cold-pressed, no heat or chemicals used, and has an acidity of less than one percent.”

Sally and Hattie were both scribbling away.

“Okay. You pick, bring the olives to the mill, and then what?” Sally asked.

“I will let the owners tell you, but basically after the olives are washed and any twigs separated out, they are crushed by three granite millstones,” Francesca said. “In the old days a donkey provided the power, walking round and round. The mashed-up olives, a paste, are spread on layers of round straw mats and piled up, then the press pushes the oil out. You will not see this today. But you will come back for this, too. There is nothing more delicious than fresh oil!”

Sally was insistent on the details, though. “How does it get into the bottles from these straw things?”

“The oil drips down the sides of the stack into a tank and a centrifuge spins the water out and then it is bottled. Never store your oil in anything plastic, by the way. I can’t remember what they are called in English, but it will affect the flavor and also may be bad for us.”

“PVCs, polyvinyl chlorides,” Faith called from the back. “Both things are true—bad for taste and for health. What isn’t true is that you have to store olive oil in the fridge. I keep mine in a cupboard, away from light and heat. I only buy E-V-O-O that’s dated, and although I’ve never kept any this long, unopened it’s fine for two or even a bit more years.”

“Faith is right,” Francesca said. “We use a dark green bottle like most growers to protect the oil from sunlight. For cooking, I keep a virgin-grade oil and I buy it in gallon tin containers. I transfer what I need into a smaller glass or ceramic one.”

“We’re here!” Gianni cried, swiftly pulling in next to what looked like an oversize garage. Faith had expected something with more character, but that came when they entered the building.

Two men got up from the lawn chairs set up next to a Rube Goldbergian–looking machine where they had obviously been waiting for them. They were both young, both very good-looking, and it soon became apparent, both fluent in English.

“Welcome, American and English people! Welcome to our frantoio! I am Sandro, like Sandro Botticelli, except I cannot paint, and this is my partner, Maurizio, like Maurizio Pollini, except he cannot play the piano, just what do you call it, ‘Chopsticks.’ I have so much English because I was one summer in Nebraska picking corn.”

With a flourish he grabbed the nearest person—it was Jack—shook hands, and then much to Jack’s surprise kissed him on both cheeks.

“You must excuse him. He is alone with only me too much,” Maurizio said. “Come. This is a slow time in the olio business. Of course we find much to do, but compared to the fall . . .” He rubbed the side of his face, the universal hand gesture for extreme boredom. “Your visit is a blessing.”

The tour expanded the Rossis’ information, and there was no question about enjoying the mode of delivery. Faith hadn’t laughed so much in years, let alone on the trip. The two men were definitely what the Italians call personaggi.

“We use hemp for the mats,” Maurizio said. “And I try to keep Sandro from smoking them. We do not weave them ourselves. We would like our mothers to do this, but they are modern women and have important jobs. Mine is a lawyer, which she says she chose as soon as I was born because she had the feeling I would need her services sooner or later. My papa is an accountant. Botticelli’s namesake over there has two high-powered parents; journalists in Milano.”

“Enough,” Sandro said. “It’s time for them to judge whether our oil is as appetizing as we are.”

They had set up the tasting outdoors under a large oak on a picnic table covered with a checked cloth. Chairs had been scrounged from the house, which Faith saw was an old farmhouse farther down the road.

“It is like a wine tasting. But better,” Sandro instructed once they were seated. “I will give you a taste in these glasses. Smell first. Inhale deeply. Three or four times. Closing your eyes is good. Then a tiny sip, swish it around your mouth. Swallow, or spit it out on the grass if you must, but then wait, drink some water, and try the other two. You are going from last year’s harvest, the newest, to oldest. See which you like best. Then we will have some wine and you will be our best friends forever, isn’t that what you say?”

Faith already was beginning to think of these two charming men as her BFFs, and after she tasted the oil they were producing, she knew they would also be her suppliers for small quantities to use in special dishes. She’d order some oil now and some in the fall.

The afternoon was stretching out lazily. Everyone was happy and relaxed. Even Olivia was smiling and asking Sandro questions about being on the farm in Nebraska, possibly so she could laugh at his answers, which were very funny and involved many puns.

“But although there was much food that I was not sad to leave—many, many sweet green, orange, and red gelatins they called salads with canned fruit and cheese trapped in the middle that looked like ricotta but tasted like overcooked gnocchi and all the other salads, the ones that had lettuce, were smothered with sweet mayonnaise dressings, also orange—they liked that color, those happy smiling peoples. I cried to leave their steaks. Cover your ears, Rossis, but even Chianina beef doesn’t come close to what I had in Nebraska.”

“Tonight is the night for Bistecca alla Fiorentina, so they can decide for themselves,” Francesca said. “I thought we would be tired from today, so we will grill. Sandro, Maurizio, come join us. We will eat at nine, but come early.”

“You are all so nice. Of course we will come. We can do bruschetta on the grill, too. We will bring the oil, and garlic from our garden,” Maurizio said.

The final stop of the day, at a vineyard, was a marked contrast to the two previous ones.

A long drive lined with well-tended cypresses led to the castello that was the grower’s home. Gianni turned in front of it and parked in a lot near the equally impressive old buildings that housed the winery and tasting room. The gardens were overflowing with specimen blooms, and when someone came out to greet them, it was a guide, not the owners themselves. It didn’t matter. The guide, whose name was Mia, was well informed, and even though the scale was so much larger, she conveyed the deep appreciation all involved had for their craft and product as she gave them the tour, an appreciation apparent at the other winery and the olive mill, too. As she spoke she passed out sheets explaining how wines are classified—the meaning behind those letters following all the names; DOCG, Designation of Controlled Origin Guaranteed, being the highest. The Culvers were in heaven. Handouts!

This was where Francesca had said they would purchase some vin santo to go with the biscotti they had made earlier for tonight’s dolce. And since she was sure this process would be completely new to most of the students, when they emerged into the sunlight, she asked Mia to speak to them about it.

“At our cantina we are making Vin Santo di Montepulciano DOC from white grapes,” Mia explained. “Seventy percent of the grapes must be the Grechetto, Trebbiano, and Malvasia varieties. The other thirty percent can be local varieties, and we have some we use that give our wine a very special taste. Unlike the processes for other wines, vin santo is made from dried grapes. We spread them out on straw mats after the regular harvest in a warm room, which causes the moisture to evaporate and the sugar to become very concentrated. The amount of time we leave them is important, but it is many weeks. Some people add yeast afterward to speed fermentation. Instead, we take some of last year’s vin santo saved for the purpose to add to ours. Then it goes into oak barrels where it ages, for us, at least four years. Methods vary. Some places hang the bunches of grape to dry, but basically it is the same process—a wine made from the raisin. Some use a different wood for the barrels. Originally all the barrels were made of chestnut.”

Earlier they had passed through a room filled with the enormous barrels lying on their sides with bright red rims and polished steel hoops. Very impressive.

“Please follow me to the tasting room and I think today it would be nice to sample some vin santo even though the Rossis have said you will have some later. Although ours is the traditional amber, you will notice a slight difference in each color, and in sweetness. I will be interested to hear which one you prefer.”

She led the way out into the bright sunlight and across another flower-filled courtyard to a building that was a shop and tasting room. Faith wondered how she managed in the elegant high heels she was wearing, but she must have been used to navigating the cobblestones and never even teetered.

“Mia, tell them the story of how the wine got its name,” Gianni said. “Tom here is a priest. Not like ours. A Protestant one, but I’m sure he will want to know.”

“I do want to know,” Tom said. “And I may have already heard at least one story, but please tell us yours.”

“First the official version, then the apocryphal, which is much more interesting,” she said, her face lighting up.

Mia really was darling, Faith thought, her hair a tumble of dark curls and face dominated by golden brown eyes. With her heels, stylish short skirt, and a Gucci scarf gracefully tied around her neck, she exemplified what the Italians call la bella figura, a hard-to-define philosophy that means the whole way one presents oneself, especially in public. Not just how one looks but one’s attitude and behavior, a striving for perfection, with no apparent sweat.

“ ‘Vin santo,’ which means ‘holy wine,’ takes the name from being used for mass,” Mia said. “That’s the official story, but many of us believe another is the true one. In the fourteenth century a Franciscan friar from Siena began to use the wine that was left over after mass to soothe the pain of those suffering from the plague. It was a miracle! They were cured! The sweet wine began to be used for many kinds of sickness, and we still think of vin santo as having medicinal properties.”

“Definitely more believable,” Tom agreed. “And it’s the story I’ve heard before.”

Since Roderick was looking longingly at the table with the glasses and bottles, Faith thought she’d do her good deed for the day and steer the conversation that way.

“Is all your vin santo sweet? I’ve heard some kinds are more like a dry sherry.”

Mia nodded and, much to Roderick’s obvious delight, started to open the bottles and pour samples.

“I should let you decide for yourselves, but yes, we only make a dessert wine. Now, please enjoy. And we do ship to the United States and United Kingdom,” she added.

Everyone appeared to like the wine. As they sipped, Luke added to their vin santo lore by reciting the phrase “a holy wine for a hell of a day,” which he said he’d often heard people say.

“Another kind of medicine for another kind of illness,” Terry observed. “I’ve had days like that. I think I’ll order a case!”

“Although until today I’ve never heard about the wine being for a bad day as such, in Italy we also call vin santo, vini da meditazioni—‘a wine to meditate with,’ ” Mia added.

After consulting with Tom, Faith decided they should order some, too.

“And not just to help you think about your sermons,” she said. “This has a very different flavor from others I’ve tried. You taste the raisins, of course, but it also has a nutty flavor and isn’t cloyingly sweet.”

It was an ebullient group that piled into the van, to head back to Cucina della Rossi. The brilliant late afternoon sun lit up the landscape like klieg lights from a Hollywood film set.

Gianni turned the radio on as they plunged into the valley, or at least that’s what it felt like to Faith. After what was obviously an announcement of football scores, greeted with groans from the driver and causing an alarming sudden swerve, the station started broadcasting a series of American and British oldies. A number of people were humming along, and when the familiar opening of Don McLean’s “American Pie” came over the airwaves, Terry Russo shouted, “I love this song!” and started singing. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and she had a great voice. Soon the whole group was joining in on the chorus, although Constance did say loudly at the start that the song made no sense whatsoever and she could never understand why it was so popular.

“No levees and precious few Chevys in your part of the world, darlin’, ” Hattie said before belting out the chorus.

It was a nice moment and Faith felt herself caught up in the mood. That is until they came to the famous last line—“This’ll be the day that I die.”

Possibly because of a full day of close proximity, the group went their separate ways as soon as Gianni pulled to a full stop back at the house. Faith decided to take a swim in the pool and then dry off in the sun while relaxing with a book. She was trying to distract herself and keep from marking time. Tom’s reaction to her revelation about the notebook had convinced her that what she was planning to do as soon as it was dark enough and as soon as she was sure Luke was not going to run home, she’d be doing solo. On her way outside, she stopped to look at the assortment on the bookshelves in the Rossis’ lounge and found a copy of Elizabeth David’s Italian Food, much to her delight.

Olivia was doing laps, and Faith decided to read for a while. The pool was more than large enough for both of them, but she didn’t want to disturb the young woman, who was churning up the water with a very authentic Australian crawl. She was wearing goggles and a black tank suit. Lean, not thin, Faith was surprised to see how toned Olivia was. Muscles that could only come from many hours at the gym.

She turned to Elizabeth David’s section on carni—meat—reading her description of Florentine beefsteak, Bistecca alla Fiorentina, which praised it as the best in Italy, “similar to an American T-bone steak.” A woman with extremely firm opinions, and one of Faith’s culinary idols, David went on to say that since the cut is so big there is “no room, nor any necessity” for vegetables on the plate. Faith wondered what Francesca was planning. Her fellow Americans would expect side dishes, if not on the plate, on the table. The Italian way of eating in small stages throughout a meal was indeed foreign to them.

Soon she was completely engrossed in the book, and the sound of the chaise next to her being moved made her drop it.

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t make you lose your place. I just wanted to get into more sun,” Olivia said.

“Not at all, and with this book”—Faith picked it up, displaying the cover—“the point is to lose one’s place and wander through it.” Much, she thought with a pang, like Freddy’s travel advice.

“I love her books. She’s one of those people I’ve wished were still alive, so I could meet them in person, not that I would bother her by actually doing it,” Olivia said. “Growing up, everything we ate was frozen or from tins. The notion that one should only eat what was in season never occurred to me until I read Elizabeth David. She was also a rebel, and I was drawn to that part of her, too, especially when I was younger.”

It was an opening. Olivia had rebuffed any inquiries about her personal life, but this shared admiration for the food writer, who was indeed a rebel in her day, might provide an opening. Faith started slowly.

“Thackeray said somewhere that next to eating a good dinner, the best thing was reading about one, and I’ve always liked to read cookbooks and food essays, like M. F. K. Fisher’s, too. Another woman who marched to her own drummer.”

“I’ll have to track the Thackeray quote down. Anyway yes, How to Cook a Wolf and the rest of Fisher’s are favorites, even though I’ve never cooked a thing from them.”

“The point is that we don’t have to cook from these books. I think of them as novels with a whole lot of food.”

Olivia laughed. It changed her face, free of any makeup after the swim, markedly. She was very pretty, and very young, despite her remark about looking back at her youth, Faith decided.

“You definitely know your way around a kitchen,” Faith said. “From all this reading? Or have you worked in them?”

Olivia reached for her shades, literally and figuratively, putting on dark glasses and leaning far back in the lounge chair.

“Oh, I’ve been here and there,” she said. “This sun is so delicious. My sunblock is waterproof, so I think I’ll doze.”

Well, it was a start.

Tom was in seventh heaven. He’d never made it to the pool, but after waking up from a nap in the room, went to ask Gianni if he needed help with preparing tonight’s cookout and became the sous chef, or Italian barbecue equivalent. Mario was also on hand. When Faith had changed and came down to see what she could do, she followed the noise. She found her husband behind the house by the large brick-and-cement grill that Gianni had built when they’d remodeled for just this kind of occasion, starting to prepare the coals. He was both grimy and ecstatic. This was the man, she reminded herself, who had never gotten the hang of a toaster oven. Now he was a grill master. She clearly wasn’t needed and went inside. Francesca was in the kitchen alone.

“Where is everyone and what can I do?” Faith asked. She’d expected that some of the class would be there.

“Those naughty boys Sandro and Maurizio have arrived and brought big pitchers of Italian sangria—Campari and Prosecco instead of Rioja and brandy, but still with fruit floating in it. They took everyone down to the pool for drinks. I just hope no one falls in. I’m putting together an antipasto similar to what we had Sunday night to soak up some of the alcohol. We have the wines we bought today for dinner still to come! I thought some people might help with the contorni and then later we must unmold the panna cotta, but I’m afraid it will be you, me, and Mario. Except he’s being very macho, with our husbands getting ready to grill the meat.”

“What do you want to serve with the steak as side dishes?”

“Not very much. We’ll be doing the bruschetta soon while we wait for the coals to get hot enough to sear the meat, and with what I have here”—she motioned to what looked like enough cold cuts, cheeses, roasted vegetables, and olives for a whole village—“it should hold them until the carni. For the meal, first a Caprese salad—slices of tomato, fresh mozzarella, and basil from the garden. I’ll put some of our olive oil out for people to add themselves. It’s all plated. With the meat itself, just sautéed spinach with garlic. I have both the Caprese and spinach recipes in the recipe binder. They are so easy, the students don’t need to do them with me, but I do need some help now. While I finish the antipasto and get the steaks ready to go on the grill, could you wash the spinach leaves—and cut off any stems? Once that’s done, cooking it won’t take any time at all.”

Sautéed fresh spinach, especially the new young leaves, was a standby of Faith’s (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen). Washing it took longer than cooking it; it would literally be done in minutes. She liked to squeeze a little lemon on top of hers, as well. They could put some wedges out.

She had barely put an apron on when the Culvers and Olivia came rushing into the kitchen.

“What are you making? Did we miss anything?” Sally was panting slightly and her face was red from haste, sangria, or both.

Francesca explained what they were planning and asked Olivia to cut up some fresh strawberries to use as a garnish for the panna cotta and some to boil for a quick coulis while she brought the antipasto down to the others. The Culvers and Faith made short work of washing the spinach. They’d wait to mince the garlic until just before they were ready to sauté it.

“What next?” Faith asked when Francesca returned.

“Not much. Sandro and Maurizio have their oil and cloves of garlic prepared for the bruschetta down by the grill. All we need to do is cut up these loaves of bread. They would be offended if we added a topping to their oil, like herbs, or even a little cheese.”

“I like to experiment with different ones—vegetable purees, cured meats, even shrimp—but I’m looking forward to eating the real thing, plain and simple,” Faith said.

Hattie had her pad out and was taking down Faith’s every word.

“You need to tell me more about what to put on top of the bruschetta, but I have a question first.” She paused for effect. “Now we love our beef, but what makes this kind so gawdalmighty special? I’ve been hearing about it ever since we stepped off the plane!”

“I can tell you,” Francesca said, “but why don’t we join the others and start the bruschetta, so everyone can hear? It really is whatever-that-word-was special.”

The sky was still quite light, but the coals were sending up sparks, which would be more dramatic as the evening wore on. The two young men from the olive mill grabbed the bread from Francesca, and Sandro proceeded to instruct the class on the proper way to make bruschetta.

“Listen, bambini, this is the true Tuscan, and only, method. First”—he placed slices on the grill—“we char the bread lightly on each side, or more if you like a little taste of the fire.”

It didn’t take long and he transferred the slices to a tray.

“All of you take a piece of garlic and rub one side with the cut clove. Put some muscle into it!” Sandro said. “And now the best part—pour our favoloso oil on top and eat it right away!”

The oil was indeed fabulous and Faith knew it was running down her chin, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was more—immediately.

While everyone was merrily preparing the bruschetta, much in the manner of overgrown Boy and Girl Scouts around a campfire, Francesca asked Gianni to tell everyone about Bistecca alla Fiorentina. The explanation, and preparation, were apparently his domain.

He stood on the low wall next to the grill, silhouetted against the horizon, speaking seriously—a culinary sibyl.

“You may have seen photos of the Chianina breed, one of the oldest in the world. We have recorded descriptions of them going back many thousands of years.”

“I’m beginning to think that everything food-related started here,” Jack called out. “The grapes, olives, now the beef!”

“Ah, now you begin to understand and appreciate who we are, the importance of our past,” Gianni said. “But back to the Chianina. They are pure white with a black tail, the switch, and are not just big, but gigantic! One male can weigh as much as three thousand pounds and stands almost six feet tall, taller if he is a castrato.”

Jack interrupted again. He was in a very good mood. Faith reminded herself she had yet to discover what Tom and Sky were doing in the garden shed earlier. Would Jack be so jovial if he’d seen them?

“Do those Chianina bellow at a higher pitch than the rest of the herd?”

Gianni joined the general laughter, relaxing his stance for the moment. “I will ask my friend who raises them near Arezzo, in the Val di Chiana region, which gives them their name. Besides their history, the way we prepare them is key. We will be grilling them over very hot coals. First we sear them close to the heat to get a nice mark, then we raise the grill slightly, flip the meat, seasoning the steaks with salt and pepper. Nothing else. For rare, the only way I will permit you to eat this beef, it will take in total, ten to twelve minutes.”

Wait for it, wait for it, Faith told herself. And bam, it came.

“Roderick and I do not eat bloody meat,” Constance said, and possibly the use of the word referred both to the British expletive and appearance of the dish. “You will have to cook ours longer.”

Gianni took it in stride. “This meat has been aged for twenty-one days, so it will not be bloody even when rare. You can try a taste, and if you insist I will cook yours longer, but I know what a fine appreciation for food you have, so I think it will be to your liking.”

Constance looked slightly placated and said something that sounded like “harrumph” but didn’t object further.

“When in Rome, dear lady,” Luke said and that was all that was needed.

Constance flashed him a toothy smile. “Well, we might just try a small piece.”

A few hours later, everyone had tried everything except dessert, and there was an unspoken consensus that waiting a bit to make room for it was desirable. The steaks had possibly been the best Faith had ever tasted—incredibly tender and buttery, a superb beefy flavor. She knew some ranchers in Texas were raising the breed and she was sure that her butcher in Cambridge, Ron Savenor, could get some for her. A treat for a special celebration. But now she had something else to think about.

Francesca had urged everyone to linger at the table that had been set up outdoors for the meal. Mario was clearing. Sandro and Maurizio were telling jokes and threatening to sing some of their favorites from Puccini.

“I’ll come help unmold the panna cotta,” Faith said and followed Francesca indoors before she could object. Once in the kitchen she kept going, saying “I’ll be right back” as she went out the rear door. Mario could help Francesca with the dessert.

There was no time to waste. Faith had been running through her plan all afternoon, and she had to go now. She only hoped Luke was like the Rossis, who, when the Nashes had asked how they might get in if they were out late, mentioned they never locked their doors and didn’t have an alarm system. “By the time anyone came, the robbers would be long gone,” Gianni had said.

She ran down the drive. When they’d arrived on Sunday, Francesca had pointed out several bicycles for the use of guests by the quarters occupied by the Rossis and Mario. Faith had checked to make sure the bikes were still there earlier, and they had been. She grabbed the closest and as they say, riding one was, well, just like riding one. She sped off, switching on the headlamp once she was away from the house. Luke’s wasn’t far, but it would have taken too long to walk there and back. During conversation at dinner about employment in Italy, she had managed to discover that his housekeeper didn’t live in, a topic she’d introduced in the hope of finding out this crucial piece of information.

The fear of discovery was pumping adrenaline through her body. She soon reached her destination and wheeled the bike out of sight in the back of the house. The door they had used at lunch yielded, and she was in.

The house seemed even grander at night. The only sounds she heard were the ticking of a clock somewhere and her own heart beating. Luke had left a few lights on and she had no trouble finding her way to his library. She opened the door and walked in, leaving her flats in the tiled hall to avoid leaving any traces of the outdoors on the carpet.

The moon had risen, but she didn’t linger to look at the view out the large windows, moving swiftly instead toward his desk. Nothing had been moved. She grabbed the notebook. Freddy’s notebook. A Moleskine with the top corner worn off and the wine stain squarely in the center of the cover. As she retraced her steps, she slipped off the elastic that had kept the book closed and opened it eagerly. She turned the first page, then the next, and the next—more rapidly with each one.

They were all blank.