Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  Interesting. Professor Gilbert hadn’t been on my radar, but then, I’d been kind of clueless when I was in college, and I’d never liked swapping gossip. No doubt plenty of stories had sprung up around an attractive young male teacher—presumably not gay—at a women’s college. I wondered briefly if Cynthia knew anything about him—she’d been much more tuned in to that kind of thing then. And since. Tomorrow’s lecture should prove interesting.

  Dinner wound down and I connected with Cynthia once again as we trudged slowly up the hill, my calves feeling every inch of it. I took a moment to look up, with the flashlight off. There were so many stars! I lived too close to the city to see anywhere near this many. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, but otherwise it was silent. I could smell something sweet—lemon blossoms?—and rosemary.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Cynthia said softly. “Are you glad you came?”

  “I am,” I replied in the same low tone. “I needed this.”

  “Tough times?”

  “Not so much tough as blah. Too much same old, same old. Being here is like a jump-start—a clean break. What about you?”

  “I just wanted to get away, and to think. Gives you a different perspective, doesn’t it, to be surrounded by a couple of millennia of human history?”

  “That it does. We should head up—I definitely want a shower.”

  “It’s all yours.”

  • • •

  I managed to sleep a bit later the next morning, which was just as well since we weren’t scheduled to saddle up and ride out until nine thirty. Once dressed, I spent some time sitting on my patio watching the shifting light of sun and clouds sweep over the valleys below, and practicing just “being.” Be in the moment, Laura. Smell the roses. Seize the day. I thought it was beginning to work. When Cynthia was ready, we strolled down the hill to join our colleagues and find coffee, not necessarily in that order. No croissants since that first day, but there was plenty of bread with local honey, in addition to all that disgustingly healthy granola and yogurt. At about nine Jean stood up to give the morning announcements.

  “We thought after yesterday we’d have a quieter day today, so we’ve arranged for a trip to a delightful leatherwork factory in a town near here called Scarperia. The term factory is probably an exaggeration—the whole place is not even as big as the room we’re in, but they produce some beautiful high-end leather goods there. Sadly, they’re one of the last of their kind in Italy. We hope you’ll enjoy the tour. Of course, there will be lunch. We’ll be back in good time for Professor Gilbert’s lecture at four, and he’ll be joining us for dinner.”

  It was a short ride to the town of Scarperia, and we parked the vans next to a plain building on a nondescript fringe of the town. Inside we were met by the heady smell of leather, and we trooped through a small office to the open area where the goods were actually made. Jean had not been kidding: there was one room only, and every inch was occupied, with molds and patterns and hides and bottles of dye and cutting implements and any number of things I couldn’t begin to identify. There were a few machines, looking antiquated, but everything was done by hand. There were only four or five employees in the place, led by a charming man who Jane said was past eighty and who took delight in explaining exactly what they did and how they did it—in Italian. I could grasp most of what he said, and Jane translated, but mostly we watched as his skilled hands molded polished leather in rich colors around old wooden forms, or rolled patterns in gold leaf onto a finished product. It was like stepping into a medieval atelier—techniques hadn’t changed much in hundreds of years. A perfect time capsule.

  And we were the perfect audience. A day before we hadn’t known this place existed; now everybody clamored to buy something, anything, which startled the craftspeople (they recovered quickly at the sight of all that currency), and then half of us queued up for the tiny bathroom in the corner, while others split off to find an ATM so they could buy more beautiful leather goods.

  We walked to a restaurant a few blocks closer to the center of town, where we had reserved an entire room, and sat down to course after course of amazing food (pasta with three different sauces!). And more than one wine, wrapped up with a shot of intense Italian coffee in a tiny cup, and then we sat there like Christmas geese, stuffed and happy. It was past three o’clock—we’d spent over two hours eating and drinking and talking. I was beginning to get used to the Italian pace of things—and I liked it.

  And then it was time to load up and return to the villa and Anthony Gilbert’s lecture.

  Chapter 7

  Like a flock of birds we emerged from our vans and scattered to our various rooms to stash our loot. Yes, I had broken down and bought something—one of the least expensive items in the leather goods place, not that they weren’t worth their price—and wanted to take good care of it. We had maybe half an hour before the lecture would begin. I briefly contemplated skipping it, but now my curiosity was whetted: I wanted to see this aging hottie.

  Cynthia had followed me in and was sorting through things in one of her carry-ons. “Did you know this Professor Gilbert?” I asked as I sat on the bed waiting for her to finish.

  “Only by reputation,” she said.

  “What does that mean? I heard other people saying things like that.”

  “I heard he was like a fox in a henhouse. Good-looking single guy with a lot of eager young women worshipping at his feet. Easy pickings.”

  “Did you …” I wasn’t sure how to end my question. Cynthia had been a bit more, uh, adventuresome than some of us back in the day. Certainly more than I was. Had she dated him? Or, heaven forbid, slept with him?

  She laughed. “Not my type—too obvious, too full of himself. But I knew other people … No, I won’t name names, and it might not have been true. We all had very active imaginations back then, didn’t we? Still, this should be interesting. I wonder how Barbara and Gerry tracked him down? And why?”

  “One way to find out. You ready?”

  “I am.”

  This event was being held in what was called the library, which for a change was up the hill rather than down. It was reputed to be the only place on the estate that had a wireless connection. I hadn’t checked, but there were usually a couple of people sitting outside staring intently at their electronic devices while ignoring the magnificent scenery behind them. There wasn’t anything important enough in my life to require constant checking of my emails; I was on vacation, and the view was much prettier than any computer screen.

  Inside the library, folding chairs had been set up in rows facing a makeshift podium. A few women had drifted in and were clustered in the back rows, glancing curiously at the guest of honor but apparently reluctant to approach him. Professor Gilbert was a tall and distinguished man, wearing a very professorial tweed jacket, talking with Barbara and Gerry at the front of the room. I took a moment to study him and I could see that forty years earlier he must have been drop-dead gorgeous. Age had treated him kindly, silvering his hair (still worn a bit long) and adding character lines rather than wrinkles to his face. He scanned the crowd and noticed me watching him, and he turned up the power of his smile. Nope, I’d never known him, but I found myself blushing anyway. Cynthia was right: this was going to be interesting.

  People continued to drift in, in ones and twos, until all the chairs were filled and there were people sitting on throw pillows around the perimeter: it looked as though the majority of our group was here. Either everyone was fascinated by Renaissance poetry or they had heard the echoes of long-ago rumors and were curious. Or worse—been fodder for the rumors. At fifteen minutes past the scheduled time, Barbara tallied the room and turned to the professor, nodding at the crowd. He dipped his head in reply, a curiously courtly gesture, and stepped up to the podium. And turned on the smile.

  “We won’t be needing this, will we?” He pushed the podium out of the way. “Welcome, ladies. I’m flattered that so many of you have chosen to come listen to an aging scho
lar when so many other delightful options present themselves.”

  He paused and waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention.

  “In the event that you don’t remember, I taught at Wellesley College for many years. It was my first professional position, and I never left—that must seem unusual to you in these peripatetic times. But I felt that I had found my home, my niche, and I saw no reason to go elsewhere. I took retirement a few years ago—the New England winters were becoming increasingly onerous and I had purchased a small place not far from here quite some time ago, with an eye to spending my last days on Tuscan soil. Gerry and Barbara were kind enough to invite me to speak to you today, and I am honored to do so.”

  Again he looked over the crowd, a winsome half smile on his face. “I wish I could say I remembered who among you graced my classes all those years ago, but my memory blurs, save for the words of the poet, emblazoned upon my soul. I won’t bore you with my academic prose, but I would like to speak of some of the earlier Italian poets, particularly Dante, who spent time in this lovely region. I do keep up with what my younger colleagues are doing at the college, and I see that there is a course on desire in Italian literature—this is the course I would love to have taught had the times been different then. Of course, one may interpret desire in many ways …”

  At that point I tuned out on the details and watched the show he put on. He was still handsome—and he knew it. While I had no doubt the course he had referenced did exist at the college, he had made a point of introducing the element of sexuality in his talk, in a room full of aging women, some of whom may have lusted after him from afar—or even acted on it. He could have talked about flower symbolism or the role of the Medicis as patrons of the arts, but instead he talked of sensuality. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  I turned to Cynthia. “He’s good, isn’t he?” I whispered.

  “He always was,” she replied in a whisper. “He’s got our crowd all stirred up, eh?”

  I was both amused and horrified by her comment, in equal parts, but she was right. The old letch. Many of the audience were eating it up, but others weren’t. Surreptitiously I counted heads: there were several people missing. Taking a nap? Walking in the hills? Or avoiding Anthony Gilbert?

  He spoke without notes for over an hour without losing his audience. He was charming, witty, and erudite. The applause when he gracefully wrapped up his talk was sincere, and the follow-up questions lasted another half hour. Finally he said, “Ladies—and Gerry—I mustn’t keep you any longer. Your hosts have graciously invited me to share dinner with you and to spend the night, to spare me the drive back over these uncertain roads.” That last comment brought a laugh from several people. “Let us continue our discourse over drinks and dinner. Thank you so much for your warm welcome.” He turned off his smile and turned away to speak to Barbara, and the energy in the room dropped.

  Women stood up quickly and headed for the door. I had a strong suspicion they were going to go to their various rooms and primp for dinner. Cynthia and I left more slowly; Cynthia never seemed to need to primp, and I really didn’t care.

  Once we were a discreet distance away, Cynthia said, “Well, that was enlightening.”

  I thought I knew what she meant, but I asked anyway, “What do you mean by that? I assume you don’t mean intellectually.”

  “No, I don’t. A nice bit of theater, don’t you think? He knew what he was doing back in the day. He knows that some if not all of us know too, or if there are some classmates here who spent their four years in a barrel doing quadratic equations, somebody is bound to fill them in now. He’s playing us all and enjoying every minute of it. Frankly I’m amazed he lasted as long as he did at the college.”

  “Times were different when we were there. Nobody had even coined the term ‘sexual harassment.’ We were all in a romantic fog anyway—or do I mean hormonal? Do you think he took advantage of any or all of those crushes, or did he know where to draw the line?”

  “Since he hung on until retirement age, I’d have to guess the latter. I would like to hope that the college didn’t turn a blind eye toward that sort of thing. But I could be wrong. Wonder what dinner will bring?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” I said. I had to admit I was curious.

  When we strolled down to the dining hall at seven, I smiled to myself: I had guessed right and a number of the other women now sported pretty shawls and makeup. Did we never outgrow that need to preen for a handsome man? My daughter didn’t play that kind of games with her male friends, as far as I had seen. But some of us who had come of age in the sixties still clung to vestiges of the old ways: simper and flirt.

  Inside I snagged a glass of white wine and insinuated myself into the crowd, all of whom were talking with great animation and many expansive hand gestures. I debated for about two seconds about introducing myself to the Great Man and decided there was no point—I’d never known him and I had no desire to know him now, based on what I’d seen. But I admitted to myself that I was curious to see who had known him—and who gave that away by their demeanor, rather than by anything they said.

  I ran into Xianling, who was scrolling through images on her omnipresent iPad. “Xianling, are you trying to document the whole holiday?” I asked.

  She looked up at me. “The thought had crossed my mind. But I do enjoy simply taking pictures. The professor is very photogenic, I find.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said.

  Xianling tilted her head at me. “Not a fan?”

  I shook my head. “I find him a bit too full of himself, even at his age.”

  “And yet he has his adoring followers still.” Xianling gestured toward the group that surrounded him, now that he’d armed himself with a fresh glass of wine.

  “You weren’t ever one of them?”

  “Hardly. Excuse me,” she said, tucking her iPad in her shoulder bag. “I think I’ll find myself a drink.”

  After she’d left I joined some of my companions from earlier in the day. “Hi, Sharon. Interesting lecture, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, it was!” she gushed. “I wish we could have spoken so openly when we took classes. I feel I missed so many of the nuances of Italian poetry. You never took a class with him?”

  I shook my head. “Nope, I took poli sci and psychology instead.” Which had proved a lot more useful to me than poetry and literary analysis. “I wonder how Barbara and Gerry knew where to find him. Does he live near here?”

  “Closer to Florence, I think, but that’s not too far. I wonder what kind of expatriate community there is around here?”

  “It sounds as though Professor Gilbert was smart—he bought a place here when things were cheap. So he lives here full-time now?”

  “I do indeed,” a male voice said behind me, and I turned to find the professor standing there—just a bit too close. “What I said earlier about the winters was one reason, but the truth is that I fell in love with Tuscany when I was an impressionable young man, and my affections have never wavered. It is a beautiful region, don’t you think? And you are?”

  Here we go, I said to myself, bracing myself against a blast of charm. “I’m Laura Shumway. You may have overheard that I never managed to take one of your literature courses at the college. My loss, I gather. Tell me, is there a Mrs. Gilbert?”

  “Not at this moment, although there is more than one ex, I’m afraid. I have never taken well to fidelity.”

  I wasn’t going to touch that comment. “Tell me, Professor—you must have seen many changes in academia during your time at the college. For better or for worse?”

  He looked briefly disappointed that I didn’t want to play his game, but he rallied quickly. “I applaud the return to frankness. Certainly the Renaissance masters were no prudes, and I’m sure you’re aware of some of Shakespeare’s bawdier bits. Only now may we talk about it openly …”

  Points to you, Professor. I had asked a neutral question about teaching and he had diverted it r
ight back to sex. “Excuse me, I think I need another glass of wine.”

  Sharon was hanging on Professor Gilbert’s every word. Nobody noticed my departure.

  The head table from the play had been left in place, and at dinner it was occupied by Barbara, Gerry, honored guest Anthony Gilbert, Jean, Jane, and a couple of their closest friends. Once again I was struck by the medieval aspect of it: they were the royalty here and the rest of us were the hoi polloi. At least we all got the same food, which, as usual, was simple fare excellently prepared. Accompanied by plenty of wine. Over the course of the meal, the lusty glint in some of the women’s eyes morphed into an inebriated stare. Funny—nobody until this evening had overindulged, despite the ample opportunities. Throw in the good—or bad?—professor, and restraint went out the window. I sincerely hoped that he would take himself back to whatever hole he had crawled from and leave us to our activities. There was a reason no men had been invited along on this trip: their presence changed the dynamic of the group, not necessarily in a good way.

  Dinner went on, and on … The wine flowed, and after a couple of hours the staff brought out something special, a superior local vintage, and it would have been rude to refuse it. It lived up to its billing, and I realized that if I didn’t stop I’d be seeing double. I noticed that a few people had drifted out discreetly (and wisely), but the head table was still going strong.

  “I think I’m going to turn in,” I told my tablemates. “We’re looking at a series of Medici castles tomorrow, right?”

  “What? Oh, castles, right. Good night, Laura.”

  I picked my way out of the room, placing my feet carefully on the stone stairs. Outside I breathed deeply of the scented air. Better. The atmosphere inside had gotten a little thick, although with what I wasn’t sure. Lust? I giggled at the thought—and was glad I had decided to call it a night. I made my way up the hill to my door, but once there I was reluctant to go inside. The weather had been warming gradually over the past few days, and now the evening was cool but not unpleasant, so I sat down on the patio chair and just listened for a while. I could hear the sounds of happy voices and clinking glasses from down the hill. Funny—in a way I felt like the kid who hadn’t been invited to the party. Down below there was still light and conversation, and I was on the outside looking in. But by my choice, I reminded myself.