The Body in the Piazza (8 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you from Dad and me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An interesting crew.
Molto simpatico?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francesca was running toward her, arms outstretched.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe not
tutti è simpatico
.

C
HAPTER
4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strident voice broke into her thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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