by Gail Mencini
Sophie leaned forward as he elaborated on the entree. Will’s admonition about flirtatious Italians popped into her head and made her press back against the chair frame. “That sounds delicious.”
The chef kissed the tips of his fingers and sent the kiss airborne with a flick of his hand.
“Thank you.” Will’s voice was pleasant. “We would like to look at a menu, though, before we decide.”
“Of course.”
The woman who had brought them to their table stood by the kitchen with the server, who was in his mid-twenties.
The chef retreated into the kitchen.
“Buonasera,” the waiter said and handed Sophie and Will menus. The dishes were listed in Italian with an English translation written below.
He smiled at Sophie and gestured to the paper of heavy stock, printed in a handsome script. “Please. Look over our excellent offerings this evening. Then I can answer questions about the preparations and suggest some of my favorites to you.”
“We’ll look at it now, thanks,” Will said.
After he and Sophie were alone, Will rested against his chair back and raised his eyebrows at her. “Old, young, doesn’t matter. Everywhere we go, this will happen.”
“What?”
“The men will flirt with you.”
“What? They’re not flirting. They’re doing their job.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Miss Sophie. That cook came out for one reason only. He heard a beautiful American was in the restaurant and he wanted to check you out for himself.”
“No. Chefs do that all the time. They go out and visit with the customers.”
Will chuckled. “Didn’t you notice he was only talking to you?”
Sophie brushed off his remarks with a flip of her hand. She tried to ignore Will’s smirk.
Will pulled a three-by-five unlined index card from his shirt pocket. It was covered with writing on both sides. He studied it without speaking and then pocketed it.
The waiter appeared and asked if they would like something else to drink.
Will spoke up. “Would you pick out a bottle of Chianti that you think we might like, please? Not the house one. Something mid-range, please.”
Will then rattled off the names of three Chianti producers and said that they would like something similar.
After their server disappeared to fetch it, Sophie spoke. “I didn’t realize you were a wine expert.”
Will chuckled. “I know as much about wine as I do about flying a plane. I can only tell the difference between one that tastes like dessert and one that makes my lips pucker.”
Will patted his pocket. “One of my ski buddies gave me suggestions on how to order wine for a pretty lady. Since I’m planning on taking two pretty women out to dinner in Italy, I figured I better study up.”
“Two?”
Will blinked. “Why, you and Francesca, of course.”
39
For the first time since they left Denver, Sophie relaxed.
She had walked on and off three airplanes between Denver and Florence—something she never imagined doing. The flights were behind them and, other than the mustard on her shirt, nothing bad had happened.
They were within two short blocks—easy walking distance—of their hotel.
The server appeared with a bottle of Chianti and presented it to Will, and then poured a small portion into Will’s glass.
Will sipped the wine. He nodded to the server.
After the man filled their goblets and disappeared into the kitchen, Sophie spoke. “You handled that like a pro.”
Will grinned. “Good. Now lift your glass, Miss Sophie.”
He picked up his glass to toast hers. “To finding Francesca.”
Sophie forced a smile to her lips in spite of her doubts.
Their waiter slid a small platter in front of them. It held two slices of grilled bread topped with sautéed mushrooms flecked with green herbs.
“Compliments of the chef,” the man said. “Fresh porcini with thyme and parsley from our garden.” He retreated to the back of the room.
One word came to Sophie’s mind to describe the lush flavor of the appetizer: Seductive.
He returned to take their dinner requests. The man nodded with a pleased expression and placed a shallow tureen in front of each of them.
“This is today’s soup. It is perfect for a night that is turning cool. The chef sent it for you. For dinner, I recommend the Pappardelle with Cinghiale.”
He bent a fraction closer to Sophie. “Would you like to order this pasta dish?”
Sophie stifled a giggle. “Absolutely.”
“As would I,” Will said. His eyes twinkled and his lips curled up in a smile.
The attendant left. Sophie said in a whisper to Will, “We didn’t have much choice, did we?”
“No, we didn’t. It’s what I wanted anyway. This chicken soup,” he gestured toward the bowl in front of him, “smells a whole lot better than that canned stuff I eat when I get a cold.”
She relished the rich chicken broth, with its golden hue and savory taste. Small, delicate puffs of tortellini, stuffed with cheese and spinach, swam in that soul-nourishing stock. The subtle flavors of the pasta floated across Sophie’s tongue.
Will finished his first. After Sophie placed her spoon across her empty dish, the waiter reappeared beside her.
“Did you enjoy the Tortellini in Brodo?”
“I practically licked it clean.” Sophie flushed crimson, embarrassed at her words.
The waiter chuckled and his fingertips brushed her shoulder.
Her face got hotter.
He cleared their bowls and soon came back with dishes that held long, wide pappardelle noodles. The brick-colored topping was sparsely clumped across the noodles compared to how American chefs would serve such a dish.
Small brown morsels of meat and red pieces of tomato speckled the ragù. Will leaned over his plate, closed his eyes, and breathed in the complex aroma.
He straightened in his chair. He dabbed a handkerchief at his eyes to dry his tears. “Francesca tracked and shot a wild boar in the woods. We didn’t have noodles because there was no flour or eggs. She said her sauce was no good because too many ingredients were missing. But it was like this.”
His eyes locked on Sophie’s. “We will find Francesca.”
Can he actually remember the smell of that wartime feast with Francesca?
Sophie sighed with delight when she tasted the Pappardelle with Cinghiale. A momentary feeling of guilt about the calories she was consuming hit her, but she got over it in a hurry.
No boyfriend anymore. No dieting needed.
Sophie hated herself for how she changed when she was dating Russ. She struggled with trying to lose weight but did it to please him. She bought scores of sexy clothes that weren’t her style. Sophie became the woman he wanted, even though it felt like a betrayal to herself.
Why do women believe these actions are necessary to please a man? Shouldn’t the reason for me to diet be because I decide it’s good for my health? Or buy cute clothes because they make me confident and smile?
After a small, light salad of field greens and a glass of limoncello, Sophie noticed Will’s eyes drooping.
Time to go home.
Tomorrow they would start the search for Francesca.
40
The September morning had not yet found the warmth of the day. The sun hid behind cotton puffs of clouds.
“Fine day, isn’t it?” Will attacked his breakfast with delight and even helped himself to seconds of the cured meats and melon.
Their driver showed up on time, and now with Florence soon in the rearview mirror, Sophie wished there had been time to explore the city known as the birthplace of the Renaissance. When will I ever have another chance?
“I wish we had gone to a site with a panoramic view of the Duomo. Will we drive by somewhere that I could take a photo?” Sophie said to their driver.
The driver, in his
fifties, beamed. “Of course. As you wish. I will take us on a route through Firenze that will give you a place for your pictures and a most excellent view of the Duomo.”
After only a short drive, the black Mercedes turned onto a street lined with buses pointed uphill. A brown historic landmark sign pointed ahead with the legend “Piazzale Michelangiolo.”
“Follow the people and you will come to a beautiful piazza, the Piazza Michelangelo, where you can view the glory of Florence. This most beautiful spot was created by Giuseppe Poggi in 1869.
“His museum honoring Michelangelo was not completed, but this is one of the best views in Florence. I will wait nearby. Here is my card; call me when you wish to leave, and I will meet you back here.”
Sophie asked Will to go with her, and although his demeanor signaled this was a waste of time and energy, he obliged.
The view from the piazza was spectacular. Sophie led Will to a low stone wall at the edge of the terrace where tourists waited to take their turn for a photo. The ancient city center was the backdrop, with a spectacular view of the Duomo’s terra-cotta-colored dome, the Arno, and the Ponte Vecchio.
“Go,” Will said, gesturing to the edge of the piazza. “I’ll take your picture. No arguing.”
“One of me alone and then I want one of both of us. Then you alone, too.”
He took a photo of her with his camera and another on her phone, after she showed him how. The couple waiting their turn behind them offered to take pictures of the two of them together on both devices.
Will moved in beside her for a photo. Sophie said, “Let’s say ‘Francesca’ and that’ll make us both smile.”
It worked. The photos on her phone showed two smiling people with the dome of the Florence Duomo to their side.
The photos of Will standing alone revealed a grumpy man eager to be on his way.
Their driver drove out of Florence and headed southeast on the A1/E35 Autostrada.
Thank God I’m not driving. The drivers here drive much faster than the I-25 traffic in Denver.
She glanced at the cement barricades that lined the road and narrowed its width. The barricades created a deadly funnel through which the speeding cars raced.
Will’s exuberance dimmed. His bony hands clutched the seat edge.
Sophie forced herself to look beyond the blur of the barricades.
Rolling hills with neat green rows of grapevines broadcast that this was wine country. She saw a circular road sign that featured a black rooster with the words “Chianti Classico.”
Will nudged her in the side with his elbow. “That’s the kind of wine we drank.”
Neither of them was an expert, yet Sophie and Will had fun the night before as they tried to guess the flavors in the wine. They giggled over possible terms and decided it held a hint of cherry.
Smaller white signs marked the names of villages near the freeway: Greve in Chianti, Radda in Chianti, and Castellina in Chianti. They left the Autostrada at the exit for ValdiChiana and followed white signs in the direction of ValdiChiana, Bettolle, and Sinalunga. The driver slowed as they approached a small town.
Low, white industrial-looking buildings lined the outskirts of Bettolle. Their car skirted the edge of the village and soon left it behind.
They traveled farther from the Autostrada. The softly undulating fields graduated to rolling hills. They passed a vineyard with green, trim rows of grapes. Olive trees bordered the vines, with silvery puffs of leaves at their crowns.
Clumps of trees now banded the road, creating green canopied tunnels over the tight turns. The winding road climbed toward a striking Renaissance hill town at the crest. The colors of the town’s buildings changed as they drew closer.
Sophie’s first impression of the city that rose above the landscape was of coral-colored buildings, each seeming to run into the next.
The car drew closer to the village on the hill and the colors began to separate. The ginger-colored roof tiles and burnt-orange chimneys contrasted with the golden ocher of the walls.
The walls themselves morphed into shades of gray and mustard-colored stone, both interspersed with warm pinks, tans, and ocher.
They entered the town and drove around the edge of the buildings. Their driver explained that many ancient cities in Tuscany restricted automobile traffic on city center streets. The car crept through tight, right-angled turns. The pavement gave way to bumpy cobblestone streets.
The driver parked in a packed-dirt lot filled with twenty cars. He got out and removed their suitcases from the trunk of the automobile.
“Your hotel is a short walk up that hill. I cannot drive there. It is prohibited. I will help you with your luggage.” He smiled. “Welcome to Montepulciano.”
41
The narrow passage from the parking lot led up a steep hill and curved to the left. An archway straight ahead at the top of the hill marked the entry to what looked like a wine shop.
“Vino Nobile di Montepulciano” the sign above the door read.
“This is the entrance to the caves of a well-regarded producer here in Montepulciano,” their chauffeur said. “It is a very famous wine from this region. You should visit this place during your stay here.”
The end of the cobbled path opened into a beautiful square, anchored on one side by a cathedral. A tall bell tower rose up next to the church. Their chauffeur asked for directions from a man walking past them.
From her research, Sophie thought their lodging was near the piazza, and she was correct. She and Will followed their driver down one of the streets that branched off the square. They walked along the line of attached buildings, and after a distance of about a city block, they approached a hotel.
The front of the building stood out from those on either side.
Not grayed and drab from years of weather, dirt, and probable lack of care, the building in front of Sophie stood colorful and proud. Almond-colored border stone surrounded the windows and complemented the salmon color of the mansion.
“This is it,” their driver said. He deposited their luggage close to the hotel entrance.
The elegance of the twin door panels with their bulky black handsets and massive brass door knockers belonged in another century. A work of art on their own, the back plate of the knockers featured the face of a man with the ears and mane of a lion. The hinged moving piece attached to the sides of the face where a human’s ears would sit.
Sophie reached for the knocker, eager to feel the smooth metal in her hand, the weight of its swing, and the strike on the doorplate.
The knock rang with a solid thud. Sophie wondered, looking up at the four-story house, whether they would hear the knock deep inside the building.
Two elderly women with brilliant white hair strolled down the street. Both shorter than Will, they stopped and silently stared at the Americans.
Sophie smiled at them, but their stoic faces did not respond. The women walked away with scowls across their faces. Surprised by this reaction, Sophie wondered if the women considered them “Ugly Americans.”
The large door creaked as it opened. “Buongiorno,” said the barrel-chested, balding man who welcomed them to the mansion. The older man approximated Sophie’s height and wore wireless round glasses, which mirrored the shape of his head. “I am Vincenzo. Welcome to Villa Lombardi, my home.”
Will’s hand shot in front of Sophie to shake his hand. Will introduced the two of them to their host.
Will paid the chauffeur and thanked him. Their driver wished them a good stay in Montepulciano, turned, and walked back toward his car.
Vincenzo put their luggage in the lift, said he would ride up with it, and instructed them to wait for the lift’s return. They could ride it up to the second floor, which, he explained, was two levels up from the street.
Sophie thanked Vincenzo. With all of the walking ahead for Will and her, taking an elevator whenever possible seemed wise.
The tiny lift returned. Sophie and Will got into the empty elevator and
pushed the button for the second floor. It crawled upwards. The elevator opened into a room with small bistro tables for two or four, lofty windows that bathed the room with light, and a long wooden counter topped with gray-streaked white marble.
Platters of pastries resting on tatted lace doilies lined one end of the bar.
The doilies dredged up a warm yet painful memory for Sophie. Her mother gave Sophie a cedar chest when she was five. It had been her mother’s girlhood “hope chest,” a place to store heirloom linens and gifts for her future marriage.
Inside this chest in Sophie’s apartment, waiting for her someday wedding, she kept doilies with similar delicate knotted lacework. They had been handmade by Sophie’s great-grandmother.
In the crazy dichotomy that was her life, next to the doilies, Sophie kept the electronic device cords that multiplied like rabbits, yet mysteriously existed without a partner apparatus to charge.
42
Will’s room was compact. His bathroom, bed, and sitting area could all fit inside Sophie’s small combined kitchen and living space in Denver.
Sophie’s room was nothing short of glorious. The sprawling room featured a “large bed for two people,” which seemed smaller than an American queen bed, and a dresser with a curved mirror attached. On top of the chest was another tatted lace doily resting beneath a small lamp topped with a linen shade.
A polished dark wooden floor scattered with throw rugs welcomed her into the spacious bedroom. On one side of the room, a wooden bench, coat hooks, and a large armoire provided additional storage for her clothes.
A small café table and two wooden chairs sat along another wall. It was the perfect place for her to set up her notes and maps for their quest.
The bathroom? Sophie sighed. Definitely not the highlight of her room. One could call it a “walk in, back out” space.
The tiny area held a bidet, toilet, white pedestal sink, and a shower. Sophie appreciated that the shower had a door, rather than a curtain, but the enclosure, barely three feet by three feet, would make shaving her legs a nearly impossible task.