It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  For this trip, she had followed the advice from a travel blog, which was lucky. Sophie splurged on a hanging foldable cosmetic bag sided with clear plastic for easy viewing of the contents. It was perfect for cramped quarters. Without it, unpacking her toiletries would have been dicey at best.

  Sophie explored her room further. A narrow door off the bedroom opened into a sitting area.

  She smiled with delight.

  The covered sitting area was a verandah that opened to a central courtyard and the sky. Sunlight filled the space with light and promise. This private retreat, furnished with a wicker loveseat, chair, table, and two large terra-cotta pots stuffed with red geraniums, was her favorite part of the entire suite.

  Guilt washed over her. Will is paying for this hotel. He should have the premium room.

  She went to visit Will and offered to switch rooms.

  “No. Not a chance, Miss Sophie. What the hell would I do with all that space? But,” he winked at her, “after we find Francesca, I might take you up on that offer.”

  I should have been firmer in saying “no” when he first asked me to help. Will truly believes we’ll find her. I allowed him to have false hopes.

  Sophie finished the last of her unpacking and tucked her suitcase and carry-on into a corner of her bedroom. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since they left Florence.

  She found Will in the breakfast room with an empty dessert plate in front of him.

  He grinned at her and pointed to the platter of pastries on the bar. “I can vouch for the square ones with apricot. Mighty tasty.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I want to explore the town. We can start looking for Francesca.”

  Will jumped up from the table. “Let’s do it.”

  Outside, the warm autumn sun filled the piazza with light. A large church—the city’s Duomo, Sophie guessed—dominated one side of it. More people were here now. Every age was represented in the piazza, mostly Italian, but Sophie also heard snippets of English conversations in the buzz of voices.

  Two young women in short, tight skirts strolled by them, their rapid-fire, sing-song Italian words musical in tone and rhythm.

  Three elderly Italian men stood in front of a majestic medieval stone building. A tall turret stretched to the sky from the roof, and arched windows lined the second floor, with a balcony across the center two openings. A businessman, dressed in a sports coat, entered the building.

  Sophie gestured down the street that fell away from the piazza on the left. “Let’s try this street. The road is crowded with people. I’ll bet we can find a restaurant.”

  Half a dozen steps later, Sophie realized Will hadn’t moved with her. He stood frozen in the piazza.

  Sophie walked back to where he stood.

  Will’s arms hung by his sides.

  “Will? Are you OK?”

  His head slowly pivoted toward her. “I don’t know where to start.”

  Sophie nodded. “I know. It’s overwhelming.”

  He nodded.

  “This city,” Sophie swept her arm to encompass the lively square, “is a great place to start. Francesca, or at least her letter with the Montepulciano postmark, was here.”

  She linked her arm through his. “First, let’s find some food.”

  Sophie put up a brave front, but Will’s fears mirrored her own.

  Sophie also worried about Will’s health and about his emotions if they couldn’t find Francesca. She held fears about the adequacy of her arrangements for this trip overseas. Did I plan for any and all emergencies?

  43

  They wandered into a small restaurant, where they each ordered an individual pizza and a small bottled water. The food and fluid gave them energy and lifted their spirits.

  Outside again, Will stepped in front of a couple in their sixties. He held up the photograph of Francesca holding her baby.

  “Do you recognize this woman?” He didn’t bother with pleasantries or a smile.

  The couple shook their heads and brushed past him.

  Will stomped over to two young girls in their teens. He thrust the image in their faces and barked out his query.

  The girls backed away from Will with a frightened look in their eyes.

  No wonder, Sophie thought. Will was a gruff old American man and, although slight in frame, looked threatening as he growled out his questions.

  “Will, stop.” Sophie put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. “I think we should take another approach. Let’s walk down this street and stop in every shop and restaurant until we get to a dead end, or six blocks, whichever comes first.

  “We can reward ourselves with a cup of espresso or a glass of wine when we reach that point. Then, we’ll turn around and hit each of the establishments on the opposite side of the street as we head back up to the piazza.”

  He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Halfway down the street, businesses and restaurants began to shutter their doors for the afternoon closure.

  Sophie and Will turned around and walked back toward their hotel.

  They hadn’t planned on the stores closing for the afternoon. One more thing that I didn’t know about Italy.

  She proposed they have a drink of some sort back at the hotel and rest. Then, at 5 o’clock, or as the Italians said, at 17:00, start searching where they left off.

  After their rest, they encountered a new problem: The farther from the piazza the stores were, the less English was spoken by the shopkeepers.

  Sophie left Will to rest on a wrought iron bench outside a shop that sold pottery and household decorations.

  She trudged back up the street to a housewares store they had stopped at on the way. The young woman tending the store spoke excellent English.

  Sophie asked the young woman for her help with a written translation of their query.

  I am Will Mills. This is a picture of a woman I met at the end of World War II. Her name was Francesca Polvani. I appreciate any help you may offer. Do you know this woman, her family, or someone who looks like her?

  Sophie walked back down the street, hopeful that the written question would bring success. She tilted her head back, enjoying the afternoon sun on her face.

  Sophie could feel the sun’s warmth on the cobblestones beneath her thin sandals. The sound of Italian voices headed for shopping peppered the narrow street.

  The angle of the sun cast shadowed light on the bench.

  Will was gone.

  44

  Sophie dashed into one store after another.

  No Will.

  Where can he be? Did he trip on the uneven stones and injure himself?

  The sound of laughter and female voices speaking English drew Sophie’s attention. A cluster of middle-aged women stood outside a business farther down the street. It sported a red awning over its large front window.

  She rushed over to them. Perhaps they had seen Will.

  “Excuse me,” Sophie said. “I’m looking for my friend. He’s an elderly American. He’s a bit shorter than me, has a lean build, and gray hair. Did you see him?”

  “He’s inside with Margherita,” one of the women said. She was younger and thinner than the others. “She runs the cooking school here, where our group had a lesson and lunch.”

  She said to her friends, “Let’s go, shall we? Our wine tasting is next.” She turned toward the piazza and motioned for the others to follow.

  Sophie walked under the arched entrance to the school. The hefty mahogany-colored doors stood wide open, encouraging visitors to enter.

  To Sophie’s left, a long wooden table occupied most of the space in a dining room, surrounded by simple chairs. The table held a bouquet of wildflowers, but nothing else.

  Aprons with the embroidered skyline of an Italian hill town, presumably Montepulciano, decorated the left wall. The saying below the apron’s horizon read, “Cucinare è Amore.” A center plaque on the same wall in a curly script translated: “Cooking Is Love.”

  T
o the right sat the most captivating kitchen Sophie had ever seen.

  A butcher-block counter lined the right wall, stretching beyond the edges of the large windows that faced the street. Thick oak legs held up the bench and the lower shelf. Black cast-iron skillets, substantial stainless steel pasta pots and bowls, and oval roasting pans blackened from use filled the lower shelf.

  The center island would suit an upscale Denver restaurant kitchen. A bar suspended over the metal table held hooks, which gripped copper pans, long-handled stainless steel spoons and ladles, and metal whisks.

  More counter space, two deep sinks with tall faucets on hoses, and two dishwashers lined the back wall.

  The jaw-dropping allure, however, was on the left side of the kitchen.

  The enormous wood-burning fireplace, with a stone hearth and surround, reminded Sophie of the gaping mouth of a whale. The flames of a wood fire danced behind the arched six-foot opening.

  Long poles with hooks and square spatulas the size of extra-large pizzas leaned against the wall on one side of the firebox. Neatly stacked firewood bordered the other side.

  Sophie had seen wood-fired ovens in Denver and Boulder, but nothing could match the rustic beauty of this fireplace.

  Two armchairs, diminished by the dramatic oven, sat unoccupied off to one side.

  Sophie’s culinary skills were limited to removing the lids from cans of tuna and preparing macaroni and cheese from a box. This kitchen, albeit intimidating, made her want to take lessons.

  But where is Will?

  45

  A rounded woman in her fifties entered the kitchen using a back door. Her penny-colored hair complemented her freckled alabaster skin. She didn’t look Italian at all, except for her broad nose and almond-shaped eyes.

  “Buongiorno. May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my American friend, an elderly gentleman. He is thin and nearly my height.”

  “Prego. He is, I think, in our garden. Come. I will show you.” She spun around and motioned for Sophie to follow her through the door at the rear of the kitchen.

  Sophie was surprised at the charming, light-filled patio. It was a sunny garden, hidden from view in the middle of an ancient city center. The outer perimeter of green shrubs and wispy plants softened the stone-paved space.

  Will sat at a long, rough-hewn wooden table in the center of the courtyard. A vine- and flower-decked pergola offered shade.

  Stacks of salad plates, cruets of olive oil and vinegar, and baskets of sliced crusty bread adorned the table’s center.

  Sophie studied Will’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am. Don’t I look like I’m OK?”

  “You look marvelous. I was worried about you. You disappeared on me, you know.” She sat beside him. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Look.” Sophie gestured to the greenery. “Lush bushes, herbs of more varieties than I can name, and,” she pointed overhead, “vines and flowers to offer shade.”

  The woman who showed her to the courtyard appeared with two goblets of water.

  Sophie and Will thanked the woman but let the glasses of tap water sit untouched. They had agreed, except in the case of a dire emergency, to drink only bottled water while in Europe.

  “I am Margherita Baggi, and this is my cooking school.” Their hostess beamed with pride.

  Sophie smiled at the woman and introduced herself and Will. “I heard from the ladies leaving your class how wonderful you are and how much they had learned. Your kitchen is beautiful.”

  “Grazie. You should come to a class. Both of you. You will like it.”

  “Perhaps in a day or two,” Sophie said. “We’ve only just arrived today.”

  Margherita nodded in Will’s direction. “Perhaps you should rest today and start your touring tomorrow.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Sophie turned to her travel companion. “What do you think, Will?”

  “I think time’s wasting.” He pushed up from the table but immediately swayed backward and plopped back down on his chair. He grabbed the glass of water in front of him and drank half of it.

  Sophie’s eyes widened with dismay, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Let me bring you something to eat. You must be hungry.” Margherita hustled back to the kitchen before Sophie could explain they ate lunch a short time ago.

  Margherita returned with a plate of thin slices of prosciutto and salami, sliced Pecorino Romano, and figs cut in half to showcase their glistening boysenberry-colored flesh.

  A warm aura spread over Sophie. A fig tree grew in her Italian grandparents’ backyard. This simple gift of a fruit that she rarely saw in grocery stores conjured up the smiling faces of her grandparents and their inviting home.

  Now, she and Will were here, in a foreign country where they couldn’t speak the language, chasing a dream. Worries snaked into her mind. What kind of trail do we have to follow? A single postmark from seventy-five years ago. How will we deal with it if Will gets travelers’ diarrhea from the water?

  “Rita, I got more flour. Only five kilograms. Hope you can make it last until they get the delivery.” The man who spoke entered the courtyard from the narrow rear alley. His unruly hair the color of a football and puffy, red face made him resemble a Scot who’d been in the sun too long.

  The Scot was in his early fifties, with a belly that caused his belt to rest low on his hips. Over his bulbous nose, his eyes matched his hair.

  “Well, hello, Luv.” He grinned at Sophie. His voice sounded American, with a trace of a British accent.

  “Hi.” Sophie smiled.

  Will nodded at the man who was at least four inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than him.

  Sophie turned toward their host. “Margherita, do you have—”

  “What is this?” Margherita’s hand flicked the air at the man. “You could only find five kilograms of double zero? What do we do here? We teach tourists to make pasta. No flour? No pasta. If you no find it here, then maybe tomorrow you should go to Perugia.”

  The man laughed. “Not likely.” He then moved closer and whispered something to Margherita.

  Margherita shook her fist at him, but her face wasn’t angry.

  Sophie suspected this type of bantering was common between them.

  Margherita looked at Sophie. “You would like something?”

  “Bottled water, please, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m happy to pay you for it.”

  The man walked into the kitchen and came back with two bottles of water. He offered them to Sophie.

  “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

  “For you, Luv—”

  “Nothing,” Margherita said in a firm voice. She shot the man a silencing look.

  He winked at Sophie.

  “This man,” Margherita said, “is Joseph. I’ve tried to get rid of him for almost ten years.” She wrapped an arm across his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

  He grinned at Sophie. “Joe. Joe Able. An able-bodied man for all your needs, and a fellow American.”

  Margherita gave him a playful spank with the dish towel tucked in her apron.

  Sophie handed Will both containers of water. “Thank you.” She introduced herself and Will to Joe.

  “What are you doing here besides eating our food and drinking our water?” Joe’s question was rude, but this man with his disheveled appearance looked more a jokester than someone nasty.

  Sophie patted Will’s forearm. “We can leave now if Will is up to it.”

  “Up to it? Hell, I’m always ready,” Will said in a loud voice.

  “We’ve got another lesson in an hour.” Joe scratched under his unshaven chin. “Unless you want to help with the lesson, you should leave.”

  Margherita turned to Sophie with a warm smile. “Do not listen to this impolite man. You stay as long as you want.”

  “I’ll bet you can’t boil water, much less make spaghetti,” Joe said.
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  “You’d be surprised. I make great pasta.” Sophie was lying. “I’m practically a gourmet cook, in fact.”

  Right. Gourmet cook indeed. On occasion, Sophie cut up a rotisserie chicken from the store and added it to her macaroni and cheese.

  Joe nodded and sucked on his teeth. “Good to know. We’ll know who to turn to if we need a backup for Margherita.”

  “Let’s go.” Will stood. The bottled water apparently perked him up.

  Sophie vowed never to travel anywhere without bottled water nearby for each of them for the duration of the trip.

  Will and Sophie walked toward the door that led to the kitchen.

  “Good-bye, Chef Sophie,” Joe said.

  No classes for me. Sophie refused to let this jokester find out she knew nothing about cooking. Her culinary skills didn’t even stretch to deciphering the menu in the fancy restaurants Russ had taken her.

  46

  Back at the hotel, she and Will sat in the breakfast room. He nibbled on another pastry, and she sipped the espresso that Vincenzo made for her.

  Sophie eyed her travel partner, wondering if he ate as many sweets back home. She told herself to put the pastries out of her head, as thinking about Will’s intake of sugar would only give her one more worry.

  Sophie finished her espresso in one gulp. “Let’s plan our attack for tomorrow. Crowds of people gather in the large square by the Duomo, the Piazza Grande. Our search should start with the arteries running off it.

  “I’d like to find someone to help us translate. What do you think about enlisting Joe? He speaks both languages and knows the town and residents.”

  Will chuckled. “I suspect he has time to do it. I’m willing to bet Margherita is the workhorse.”

  “Let’s pick him up a gift from one of the shops near the Piazza Grande. We can ask Joe for his help after their class is finished.”

  Vincenzo made no attempt to hide his eavesdropping. He recommended they take a bottle of the local Vino Nobile di Montepulciano to Joe.