by Gail Mencini
She glanced at Will. His face showed no interest in the structure’s history.
Having read about the row of jewelry stores on the bridge, Sophie expected high-end shops like Tiffany’s or the independent jewelry designers in Denver’s Cherry Creek area, with their window displays of unique jewelry pieces. Instead, the tiny shops’ windows held only a few thin necklaces and pairs of earrings.
In front of some of the stores, vendors stood with tables displaying their gold jewelry. Sophie asked one gentleman whether his pieces were fourteen- or eighteen-karat gold.
“My jewelry,” the vendor said, “is eighteen-karat gold. Only the finest gold is sold on the Ponte Vecchio.”
Sophie sighed. No window-shopping now. The mission was to keep Will moving.
Sophie had studied the walking map of ancient Florence on the plane, fearful they would lose their way. The brown signs that marked walking directions to the historical sites, however, made navigating toward the Duomo easy.
They walked over the few blocks to Via dei Georgofili and then followed Via Lambertesca to the Uffizi Gallery courtyard. There, they turned left and strolled toward the Duomo.
The Uffizi courtyard opened into a beautiful, open piazza, with the Palazzo Vecchio on one side. Tour groups and people strolling arm-in-arm filled the open space. The chatter of tourist voices created lilting layers of sound.
Will’s hand tightened on her arm. “Keep one hand on your purse and watch for gypsies.”
Sophie stopped and took it all in. A rush of excitement tingled up her spine.
She wanted to stay in this piazza for hours. Watch people. Listen to the languages being spoken around her. Wander over to one of the cafes with tiny tables and have a gelato or espresso or glass of wine.
Italy. She was here. Never had Sophie imagined a trip to Europe.
“It’s not much farther to our restaurant, is it?” Will said.
“No. We’re close.”
Sophie studied her map. The distance from where they stood to the Duomo was farther than the first leg from the Arno River to this piazza. A taxi for their return to the hotel might be necessary.
When the sea of people walking ahead of them dispersed into another grand piazza, Sophie saw the Duomo. She drew in her breath and stood in awe of its beauty and majesty.
Beside her, Will gave an appreciative whistle, his focus on food put aside for a moment.
The Duomo held court in the center of a piazza that swarmed with people and voices. Ringing the Duomo, broad spans of stone separated the cathedral from the cafes with tables out front for alfresco dining and the open doors of luxury tourist shops.
The shops with colorful leather coats and purses beckoned to Sophie, but her feet catapulted her toward that looming architectural wonder, the Florence Cathedral.
The clay-colored dome designed by Filippo Brunelleschi was a striking landmark of the city that had flourished during the Renaissance.
The exterior of the building looked like white-and-gray marble from where they stood, a beautiful contrast to the colorful dome. As Sophie and Will drew closer, to Sophie’s delight, she discovered the exterior walls were not white and gray but pink, green, and white marble in intricate inlaid patterns.
The Duomo was a summer breeze ice cream cone with the delicate pastel shades and precise patterns of color, topped by the majestic, striking dome. No picture could do it justice.
“There’s the line for entry,” Sophie said and pointed at the queue.
The line snaked along the entire length of the Duomo.
Will’s steps slowed. His feet scraped the stone with each footfall. Her elderly neighbor edged forward with a shuffling, dragging step.
It would be inconsiderate to ask Will to wait in a queue to enter the Duomo. She grabbed his arm. “Let’s go to the head of the line. I want to ask what time they open in the morning.”
He nodded and licked his chapped lips, dried and cracked by the overseas flight.
“Excuse me,” Sophie said to the man who monitored when and how many people entered the cathedral. “What time does the Duomo open to visitors in the morning? We just flew in and are too tired to wait in line.”
The man smiled. “You two may go now if you wish. Exceptions are made,” he tilted his head at Will, “for special cases.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Sophie said.
The man stepped back to allow Sophie and Will access to the doorway.
Will grunted. “Good thing I’m with a pretty girl. That Italian would’ve made me stand in line, but for you? He lets you cut in front of all those people.”
Sophie opened her mouth to correct his misconception, but the sparkle in Will’s eyes made her swallow her words. “I guess if I’m the ticket to cut in line, that means you buy dinner tonight, doesn’t it?”
“You bet I will.”
32
Inside the Duomo, cooler air welcomed them. The high arches of the white Gothic ceiling were crisscrossed with gray stone. Brilliant pops of color from stained-glass windows pierced the walls of the vast pale cavern. The magnificence of the exterior dwarfed the beauty of the subdued inner space.
The voices of other tourists—many of whom strolled with audio guides plugged into their ears—did not override the peace of this holy place. Except for a handful of weddings and the funeral for Will’s wife, Sophie avoided churches.
But standing here, inside this beautiful, centuries-old cathedral, made Sophie think about God. Some of the artisans who built this masterpiece likely believed in a higher being and perhaps even credited their inspiration and vision to God.
Elaborate mosaic patterns of white-and-gray and brightly colored stones composed the floor of the Duomo. Will trailed Sophie as she walked to what she most wanted to see, the underside of the dome.
The construction of the dome was long an engineering mystery. This dome, with no visible support, had been built using two domes and lifting mechanisms invented for that sole purpose.
While the dome’s construction itself was a marvel, the intricate underside was a work of art. Giorgio Vasari designed frescoes of the Last Judgment to grace the inner dome of the Duomo.
Sophie would have loved to see the dome’s artwork up close, rather than from the floor of the cathedral. She longed to look out over Florence from the height of the dome but knew that to be impossible. For those views, she and Will would have to climb the 463 steps to the top.
Perhaps the next time in Italy, she would climb the steps to the dome.
Her thought shocked her.
I haven’t recovered—physically or emotionally—from the flight, and I’m contemplating my next visit? No. Not happening.
Sophie recalled her anxiety on the plane before departing Denver and thought about the long flights home. Her breathing quickened. Icy prickles raced from her extremities toward her heart.
A wave of nausea hit her. Light-headedness caused her to sway.
Someone’s firm hand gripped her biceps.
Her head spun to see who touched her.
Will’s eyes bore into her. He spoke in an even tone. “Come on, Miss Sophie. You look pale. Let’s go over to those benches. We’re both tuckered out.”
He moved with deliberate steps in a slow, steady cadence, guiding her to sit down on the bench.
He placed his palm against her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good.”
Will sat down beside her on the marble bench.
Sophie closed her eyes and walked her mind through the steps she learned from her child psychiatrist, which were designed to enable Sophie’s body to hit “pause” when blood rushed from her head.
The mental exercises worked.
She glanced at Will, expecting to find him sleeping.
He sat with his back straight, his palms resting on his knees, and his eyes wide open.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” Sophie said.
His eyes studied her face.
“I’m OK now. Thank you.” She s
miled at him. “You’re a gentleman.”
“My momma drilled basic manners into me when I was a young cub on the ranch. She was a good, hard-working, God-fearing woman. She vowed to make sure that no son of hers would be ignorant of manners and make a fool of himself.”
His mother raised Will as a gentleman.
On sidewalks, he positioned himself between the street and me.
When he isn’t cursing at me, he watches over me, like his “protection” in the airport and here, at the Duomo, when dizziness threatened to bring me to my knees.
But the lessons only somewhat stuck with Will. A gentleman would never abandon his child and the woman he got pregnant.
And a gentleman wouldn’t complain about an old, dying dog.
Is Will a true gentleman? Sophie held doubts, but Will at least passed some of the tests. Not like Russ.
“Will, I think it’s time we go to dinner. We can eat a little something and get a cab back to our hotel.”
Will coughed into his elbow. He pulled a white, pressed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. After he had finished, Will folded and returned the cotton cloth to his pocket.
“Dinner is a great idea.” Will stood and offered his hand to help Sophie rise, the proper action for a gentleman.
33
Customers occupied many tables in the restaurant, though it had opened only fifteen minutes earlier.
Pride filled Sophie. She—the woman who got her first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean last night—found a trendy restaurant in Florence, Italy.
A male host led them to a small table in the back.
A waiter appeared and thrust two menus at them. In a brusque voice, he said, “With or without gas?”
Sophie turned red.
Will chuckled. “I’d say we’re without gas. What do you think, Miss Sophie?”
“Water,” the waiter said. “Water with or without gas?”
Sophie’s red face turned crimson at her misconception of the waiter’s question.
Will frowned. “Without gas.” He looked down at the menu. The waiter bustled off to a foursome who occupied a nearby table.
“Not very friendly,” Will said. “Must be because they’re busy.”
Sophie glanced at the menu, and then turned it over. It was printed in English, with prices listed in U.S. dollars, rather than euros. She listened to the cadence of voices around her.
She strained to filter the speech patterns. The language she heard spoken by the patrons was English. American English.
Sophie swiveled her head and took in the dress and appearance of the customers. She noticed the guidebook she used for the trip rested in a place of honor on top of one-third of the tables. Other Americans studied different well-known travel publications.
Tour books written in English dotted the room.
Her lower lip trembled. That’s why it’s packed. It’s full of Americans. Americans who eat too early by European standards.
“I think I’ll have chicken under a brick,” Will said. “Didn’t you tell me that is their specialty?”
Sophie nodded. Her appetite fled as she wondered if all her research for the trip was flawed.
“I think chicken will be perfect for curing my travel stomach.”
Sophie looked at him. Tears dampened her eyes. “I’m s...sor—”
“Starving?” Will’s eyes brightened. “Me, too. How about two chickens? I’m so hungry I might even eat the brick.” He reached across the table and patted the back of her hand.
Sophie looked around as plate after plate of flattened chicken scooted by them on the arms of waiters, destined for other tables. Her spirits sank further. “I thought I found a typical Italian restaurant.”
“This is great for tonight. The good news is that if we happen to feel like something else tomorrow, I’ll bet there are a whole slew of restaurants in this city.”
Sophie had made a poor choice for tonight’s meal, which might have explained Chiara’s reaction when Sophie asked for directions. It did no good to take her disappointment out on Will.
“I agree.” She forced a smile. “About everything but the brick. There’s no way I’m eating a brick, though I must admit I’m starving. How about it? Let’s order the chicken.”
When their waiter arrived, Will surprised her by also ordering two glasses of the house wine.
“I’m in Italy with a beautiful woman. You’re in Europe for the first time. We need to celebrate.”
A glass of wine—precisely what Sophie needed.
Sophie’s chicken dinner satisfied her hunger and, although not extraordinary, the meal was better than she feared.
Tomorrow I’ll ask Chiara where the locals eat.
34
Sophie hailed a taxi after dinner. She was too exhausted to walk back to their hotel, and she imagined Will felt the same. Will’s shuffling step when they left the restaurant worried her.
She tried to talk with him during the drive, but his eyelids drifted shut.
Did I overdo it on the very first day with our walk to the Duomo?
The next morning, sounds of movement from Will’s room traveled through their joint wall. His footsteps outside her door meant he was headed down to breakfast. Sophie rushed to finish.
She entered the ground floor breakfast room and was pleased to find a bright room with six small tables. A self-service buffet of cold food lined the opposite wall.
A pleasant-looking woman in her forties walked into the room from a side door and carried steaming coffee cups to a middle-aged couple, who were seated at the back of the room.
Will stood by the smorgasbord, filling a plate and chatting with the man she saw yesterday in the lobby. Will waved at Sophie.
“Good morning, Miss Sophie,” Will said in a cheery tone. His face beamed with an uncharacteristic smile.
Will introduced her to his new friend, a businessman from England. The man declined Will’s invitation to sit at their table, saying he needed to look over notes prior to his morning meeting.
Sophie filled a small dish for herself from the modest but appetizing array of choices. She chose a wedge of cantaloupe, a whisper-thin shaving of prosciutto, one thin slice of salami, and two rectangular slices of a cream-colored cheese.
Sophie eyed the crusty Italian ciabatta at the end of the table. Its sweet, toasty aroma tantalized her.
No bread in the morning. I’ll have some tonight, but I can’t have bread with every meal or I won’t fit into my clothes.
The prosciutto hit her tongue, and a sigh escaped Sophie’s lips.
Will grinned. “Good, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I forgot how delicious the salami is in Italy. ‘Course when I had this before, it was wartime. We sure didn’t have a spread like this. Whatever I ate, though, beat my K rations all to heck.”
“What was in a K ration?”
“Well, let’s see.” He scratched his chin and leaned back in his chair. “Canned meat, which we all hated, hard biscuits, bars of fruit and cereal, and instant coffee.”
Sophie looked at her food and shuddered from the image of the food he described.
“They did throw in a couple of things to compensate for the miserable food, like cigarettes, gum, and sugar tablets. Oh, and pills to treat the water so we wouldn’t get the runs.”
“Ugh,” Sophie said. “I guess you’ll enjoy the food on this trip, won’t you?”
“Yep. I already am. Even the chicken last night whipped the K rations.”
Sophie’s face reddened.
“Don’t take it personally, Miss Sophie. We’ll do better today.”
“Still up for the American Cemetery?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll head south to find Francesca.”
Sophie downed the rest of her food and then pushed up from the table.
“Let’s go.”
Another graveyard with Will. I’ll get through this, but certainly not my choice of how to spend a day.
35
Chiara stoo
d at the front desk. She held up one hand. “One moment, please.” She ducked into the back room and emerged moments later with Sophie’s shirt.
“Here.” She held out the top to Sophie with a self-satisfied expression on her face. “See? The mustard is all gone.”
“Thank you.” Sophie recalled what she learned from her infamous guidebook and said, with a tentative voice, “Grazie.” She pronounced the word “Graat-see.”
Chiara cringed as if fingernails had scratched a blackboard.
Determined to conquer the pronunciation, Sophie asked Chiara for help and tried to mimic Chiara’s intonation. “Grah-tzee-eh.”
Chiara smiled. “Better.”
“We would like to visit the American Cemetery in Florence today. I think it is on a bus route. We might be more comfortable, though, if we have someone take us.”
“This is possible. Would you like me to call a private driver?”
“Yes, please.”
“It might take thirty minutes or an hour for a driver to come. I will call your room when I am successful. A taxi will also go to the memorial, but a car is better.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego.” Chiara turned her focus on Will. “Do you have a friend buried there?”
“Yes. It’s why I need to go. To pay my respects.”
Sadness marked his face. Sophie knew that there was more to his story than he’d told her.
Here was Sophie’s opportunity to explain why they were traveling together. “Mr. Mills doesn’t have a family and is too old to journey by himself.”
“I’m not too old!” Will said. “You’re used to making travel arrangements. That’s why I brought you along. Maybe you should stay in the city center and shop or something today. I can handle myself.” His voice bristled.
Sophie turned to look at him. “I want to go with you. I’d rather see interesting sights and memorials than go shopping.”
“Do what you please. I’ll manage.”