The Body in the Piazza (12 page)

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
.

I
t 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.