by Gail Mencini
The bedroom door opened, and Will returned to the table carrying one pale gray envelope.
He placed it in the center of the table and covered it with his palm.
“If you look at this, then we have an agreement. You’ll help me plan my trip. And you promise to never tell anyone about Francesca and me.”
Sophie rested her palm over his hand. “I promise.”
With his eyes square on hers, Will handed the precious letter to Sophie.
27
The thin envelope held stamps priced in lire, canceled by a post office in Montepulciano, Italy.
The sight of the tiny white inner envelope, filled with jet black baby hair, sent her reeling. Francesca mailed her infant’s lock to the father of her baby.
When Sophie’s fingertips touched the wispy black strands, it turned a child in a faded photograph into someone real. This baby would now be a grown man or woman. Will’s child.
“Will, do you have a family member or friend who would want to travel with you?”
“No family. Marie couldn’t have kids. My older brother passed seven years ago. Marie was an only child, not that I could ask her kin to help me find another woman.”
“What about friends? Someone you skied with?”
“Nope.” He scowled. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think I can handle a trip to Italy? Hell, it’s peacetime now, except for those damn terrorists who are trying to ruin everyone else’s lives. I handled Italy during the war, remember.”
Will bolted out of his chair and stomped to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water. His hand trembled hard enough to slosh water over the rim of the glass.
Will placed the glass on the counter without drinking. He gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and bowed his head.
Sophie’s eyes widened with alarm. “Will? Are you OK?”
“Fine.” But he didn’t move from his position braced against the sink.
“Will?” She leapt to her feet and stepped toward him.
Will waved to decline her help. He released his grip on the sink and turned to face her.
He spoke with deliberation. “When I left Italy, I left more good men who died there than I deserved to know in a lifetime. Leaving ...” His voice broke.
He sucked in a big breath. “I swore ... I swore on my mother’s life I would never walk on Italian soil again. A bullet meant for me killed the man next to me. I all but died there, too. That’s why, once I set foot on American soil, I gave up the thought of going back for Francesca. I was afraid I’d die there if I returned to Italy. I’m an American. I want to croak in my own country.”
“Of course you do.” You needn’t worry about being out of the country because the truth is that no respectable guide will fly with you to Italy.
She stared at the envelope. Francesca mailed the letter in 1945.
Will outsmarted Sophie. Two hours after she presented him an itinerary for his trip to Italy, which she considered hypothetical, he booked airline tickets into Florence for himself and Sophie.
When she looked away, he’d gotten her identification details from the passport in her purse.
“I paid for business class tickets.” He smirked. “Now you don’t have to worry about it being too taxing for an old coot like me.”
Sophie was stuck.
She would never forgive herself if she refused to go and Will died in Italy, all alone and brokenhearted.
Three weeks later, Will and Sophie boarded a plane, the first of three that would carry them to Florence, Italy.
Sophie tossed and turned the night before they left with nightmares about flying to Italy. She hadn’t been in an airport or airplane since she was eight years old. She insisted on traveling only on the ground, by car, or train.
She considered taking a medication that would put her to sleep on the flights but realized it wasn’t an option. She had a responsibility to Will.
Instead of sleeping through the overnight flight on the seat that fully reclined, Sophie gripped the armrests with white-knuckled hands during the slightest turbulence. She gritted her teeth and clutched her hands together on the takeoffs and landings.
Three flights and seventeen hours after they left Denver, Sophie and Will landed in Italy.
Americans, headed to Europe for holidays or business, filled the majority of the seats on their flights. But now, as Sophie and Will edged their way through the crowded lanes of people headed to the ground transportation area, it was evident that she and Will were indeed in a foreign country.
The melodic sound of Italian surrounded her, peppered with voices in English, German, Spanish, French, and languages that she could not identify.
The Italian women of all ages wore neutral colors: white, beige, and black. Not like the vibrant colors on the passengers walking the corridors of Denver International Airport.
Ahead, a stern, solemn uniformed police officer staffed the hallway to ground transportation. The officer held a fierce-looking submachine gun in his hands.
Sophie’s eyes widened.
Will grabbed her elbow and picked up his pace.
Does he think I want to stop and chat with a gun-toting officer?
Sophie didn’t make eye contact with the police officer and walked by with a purpose to her stride. True, he was in the airport for security, but the sight of his gun frightened her.
What did I get us into?
28
At the taxi queue, Will’s face grew stern. He handed the driver, a dark-complexioned, scruffy man, a paper with the address of their hotel in Florence.
“Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes to get there,” Will said. “It was a long flight. We’re not interested in a scenic route.”
Sophie was surprised, but she said nothing.
As he watched the driver load their luggage into the rear compartment, Will whispered to her, “I asked one of my ski buddies to email the hotel and find out how far it is from the airport.”
Her neighbor surprised her. What else had Will investigated?
The taxi driver wove through the airport roads, past alternate routes that listed in Italian the outlying destinations—Genova, Livorno, Roma, Ancona, and Milano—and merged onto a highway headed to Firenze.
I hope Firenze is Italian for Florence.
The taxi soon darted through the streets of Florence, which got narrower and busier as they approached the ancient city center. Sophie held her breath in the busy intersections. Cars whizzed side by side at alarming speeds. The driver of one vehicle could adjust the side mirror on the next. Vespas and other scooters darted between the lanes and cars.
Don’t the scooter drivers realize they’re putting their lives at risk?
The noise of engines revving and horns honking reverberated off the stone walls of the buildings.
The driver slammed on his brakes and swerved to the curb.
“Yes, this is it,” Will said. His voice sounded calm, but his pale face and hands that gripped the edge of the seat told Sophie he shared her feelings about the cab ride through Florence.
The narrow hotel front was constructed from large stone blocks, with the hotel name etched in an inlaid stone above the door.
The online travel site Sophie had used described it as a four-star hotel with excellent reviews. Sophie sighed with relief. The hotel looked every bit as charming as the website photos.
When Sophie stepped out onto the cobblestone street, a wave of relief and exhaustion hit her. She had planned for them to walk through several parts of the city center today, but after the flights, all she felt like doing was curling up in a bed.
If they were granted early check-in, she and Will could shower, unpack, and freshen up before a minimal walking tour. Sophie could rally for a brief stroll through the historic district, but she worried about the wisdom of a longer meander through Florence.
The problem? Will looked even worse than she felt.
29
Sophie and Will entered the lobby, a small room w
ith a single upholstered armchair, a blue-and-yellow ceramic umbrella stand, and a standing-height wooden check-in counter. A desktop computer on a small built-in desk was visible through a doorway off to the right behind the counter.
Twenty wooden cubbyholes lined the back wall behind a smiling Italian woman in her forties. The desk clerk was lovely, with a broad smile, wavy shoulder-length black hair, and brown eyes. All of five feet two inches tall with delicate bones, she likely weighed less than 110 pounds.
At the sight of her, Will straightened his back and quickened his step.
Sophie smiled at the sudden change in her travel companion’s spirit.
The woman walked around the counter to stand in front of Will. The clerk cupped his hand in both of hers and introduced herself in English as Chiara, the hotel manager.
Will’s chest puffed up as he introduced the two of them to Chiara.
When she stood in front of Sophie to shake her hand—again, a two-handed greeting—the Italian’s eyes locked on the mustard stain on the front of Sophie’s white shirt. The mustard was the product of Sophie’s lapse in judgment. She put mustard on her airplane sandwich, and she planned to wear this and three other shirts—washed only when necessary—for three weeks.
“After you have unpacked your luggage, bring your shirt to me,” Chiara said in a kind voice. “I will help you with that stain. Come, come. Let me register you. Passports, please. I will keep them here.” She held out her hand, palm up.
Panic gripped Sophie. The woman wanted her passport, the item Sophie considered more precious than money or credit cards. “If you need to make a photocopy, I can wait here for them.”
“You go to your room now.” Chiara studied the faces of the two Americans. “The photocopy should be ready before dinner.”
This gave Sophie an uneasy feeling, but she and Will handed their passports to Chiara, who slipped them inside a folder on the counter.
Chiara pulled out two room keys and handed them to Sophie and Will. “Your rooms are on the primo piano, the first floor, up one flight of stairs.”
Will looked confused.
“This,” Chiara swept her hand to indicate the lobby, “is the piano terra, the ground floor. One floor up we call the first floor.”
Will nodded and cradled the key fob. A narrow brass lady, three inches long, was attached to a key. As long as the brass lady, the key resembled one belonging to a treasure chest or castle door.
Sophie held her key and fob in one palm and ran her fingers over the worn brass figure. This beautiful item had likely been used for decades, perhaps centuries.
In spite of her exhaustion, Sophie had no intention of resting now or allowing Will to sleep.
She had read that the best way for Americans to beat jet lag was to walk and tour your first day in Europe, eat early, and try to sleep until morning.
Sophie knew Will must be exhausted. Except for his spark of energy on meeting Chiara, the poor man looked disoriented and drained.
They agreed on a time to meet for sightseeing.
After unpacking, showering, and changing her clothes, Sophie knocked on Will’s door.
She got no response.
“Will, it’s Sophie. Are you ready to go out?” She knocked louder.
Silence.
Her rapping intensified.
No sound came from his room.
She ramped up the volume even more.
The door swung open to reveal Will, who looked rested. “I’m not deaf. I heard you the first time.”
“Why didn’t you answer the door?”
A devilish grin split his face. “Think about all the reasons I might not have been able to come to the door.” He nodded his head. “Do you want me to explain the dirty details to you?”
Sophie’s face flushed crimson. “Uh, no. Let’s leave it unsaid.”
He chuckled. “Let me grab my camera, and then I’ll be ready.”
When he returned to the door, he held a saddle-colored leather camera case. “Let’s go.”
30
In the lobby, Chiara turned away from the computer and moved to the counter. “Buonasera. Did you bring your shirt?”
Sophie handed it over. “Thank you. It may be hopeless. It’s mustard.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I will try.” Chiara turned and grabbed their passports out of the cubbyholes that held room keys.
Our passports sat in those cubbyholes for anyone to grab if Chiara left the front desk. Do Italians not worry about identity theft?
Sophie noticed that another guest’s blue passport rested in one cubby and a burgundy passport lay in another. She decided it must be the customary practice here, but it still made her uneasy.
A lean, middle-aged man entered the lobby from the stairs that led to the rooms. He wore slacks, a crew-necked shirt, and a blazer. Chiara smiled and exchanged his key for the red passport.
“Grazie,” the man said.
“Prego,” Chiara said with a smile and tip of her head.
That man acts as if it’s normal to leave his passport in a lobby cubbyhole.
Two things struck Sophie. She felt ignorant for not being able to speak any Italian, and second, she knew little about the etiquette of traveling in Europe.
“We’re headed out to explore for a little while and then will stop for an early dinner. We’re tired from the long flight,” Sophie said. She showed Chiara the restaurant recommendation in her guidebook. “This restaurant is nearby, isn’t it?”
“It is not far. Many of our American guests go there.” Chiara looked down at the guest registry.
Will’s hands searched his pockets, looking for something. He leaned toward Sophie and patted her back with his fingertips. “I left my extra rolls of film upstairs, I’m going to go up and get one before we leave for our walk.”
“Would you like me to go up for you?” Sophie said.
“I walk the stairs every damn day in our apartment building. I can manage here.”
He disappeared up the stairwell.
Chiara ran her fingers over their names in the registration book. “Mr. Mills is your, uh, grandfather?”
“No. We’re not related.”
Chiara scowled.
Sophie’s face reddened as she realized what Chiara assumed. “Mr. Mills is my neighbor. We’re friends, but nothing more.” Will was hardly her friend, but that was the simplest explanation. “Will was one of the brave soldiers who liberated Italy at the close of World War II.”
A shadow fell over Chiara’s face. “Firenze and Italy suffered from the war. Many civilians died. Your country destroyed many ancient buildings and railroads.”
The words Sophie wanted to say filled her mind. The Nazis caused the destruction of Europe and the murder of six million Jews. That’s why the Americans fought here—to liberate the European countries and stop a madman. By the way, Miss Uppity, what country did Italy side with during the war?
Not wanting to offend their host, Sophie watered down her words. “Germany was responsible for the destruction of Europe during the war, not America.”
Chiara scoffed. “Hitler bombed every bridge except the Ponte Vecchio. That one he spared because of Mussolini. But it was the Americans, not Germany, who hit us the hardest after Mussolini surrendered.
“Our war should have been over. Instead, children were made orphans, and women, like my mother’s sister, had their homes destroyed by the Allies.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. America bombed Italy after Mussolini surrendered? She looked at Will, who had returned to the lobby.
He nodded to confirm Chiara’s claim. Will spoke quietly. “It was necessary. We entered the war to defeat Hitler. The bombing was necessary to cut off Hitler’s supplies and liberate Italy, though it hurt the very people we came to help.”
Chiara stared at Will. “That is what the Allies told my mother and my aunt with their pamphlets. Bombing must happen to liberate Italy.” She shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”
Sophie, eager to
change the subject, placed one of the hotel’s walking maps in front of Chiara. “We are eager to see your beautiful city. Would you please show us how to walk to our restaurant?”
Chiara’s head lowered as she drew on the map the route from the hotel to the restaurant. She slid the diagram across to Sophie. With one curt nod, Chiara dismissed them and retreated to the small office.
Sophie wondered whether they’d receive the same chilly reception from all Italians. A lack of cooperation from the Italians they met would doom their search for Francesca.
31
Sophie and Will turned right on the sidewalk, following the route Chiara had drawn. Will moved around Sophie, inserting himself between Sophie and the street.
Their hotel sat across the Arno River from the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, known as the Cathedral of Florence. Sophie had read in her guidebook that the main cathedral in an Italian city is referred as the Duomo, which means the Cathedral.
With their limited time in the city, Sophie wanted to see the famous cathedral featured in skyline photos. “Let’s walk to the Duomo first.”
Sophie showed Will its location on their map of the ancient city center. “Our restaurant is very close to it. We might even have time to look inside before dinner.”
After a few blocks, they reached the Ponte Vecchio, the medieval stone arched bridge that Chiara mentioned. Sophie had read about Florence in her guidebook on the plane. “This bridge is known for goldsmiths that line both sides of the bridge. It’ll be fun to window-shop on the way through.”
“I’m not interested in gold. I’m only interested in finding Francesca and getting something to eat.” The old grouchy Will had returned.
Sophie consulted her guidebook as they approached the Arno River and the Ponte Vecchio. She refused to let grumpy Will ruin her first glimpse of Florence.
She read aloud—whether he cared to listen or not was his choice. “Ponte Vecchio means ‘Old Bridge.’ It dates to the age of the Romans. In the 1300s, the bridge was reconstructed using a revolutionary technique. Segmental arches, less than 180 degrees, supported it to prevent bowing.”