It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  Niccolò, thankfully, put himself in charge of pouring the evening’s selection of wines. He matched each course with the appropriate wine.

  The guests wanted a “typical Tuscan meal.” Margherita, however, had designed a multicourse event, probably to impress them with her cooking school.

  Tomato and basil bruschetta, pappardelle with wild boar, mixed vegetables that—with Niccolò by her side—they had roasted earlier in the kitchen fireplace, salad, and a cheese course. Vin Santo and purchased biscotti would close the meal.

  Sophie carried in the first bowls of steaming pasta. Niccolò jumped up and ducked into the kitchen.

  Isabella stared at Sophie.

  Sophie returned to get two more bowls. Niccolò pulled her close to him in a hug and whispered in her ear. “You’re doing great.”

  He grabbed two bowls and waved for her to precede him to the dining room.

  Isabella scowled. Sophie avoided eye contact with her.

  Isabella’s mother and father greeted Sophie with warm smiles.

  Sophie sampled each course in the kitchen. She didn’t know what she’d do if they didn’t taste right, but it seemed like an appropriate task.

  Joe rushed through the entrance and came straight into the kitchen.

  “How’s it going, Sophie?” He kept his voice low. “I walked Will back to his room, and he’s resting.”

  Joe’s worried look alarmed Sophie. “Is Will feeling all right?”

  Joe brushed off the question, with a distant look in his eyes. “Tired. We drove around today. Only stopped once or twice.

  “Look, Sophie, Margherita called. Her mamma came through surgery fine, but her pa is a mess with worry. I am going to Rome to be with her. I’m leaving right away.”

  “Oh, poor Margherita. I’m so sorry to learn that.”

  He nodded. “She cried the entire time we spoke on the phone. I’m sorry, but I won’t be here to drive you and Will anymore. I need to be with her.” His brows furrowed.

  “Don’t worry about us. Please let Margherita know that we will say a prayer for her mother and father.”

  “Will do. If I don’t see you again, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and Will.”

  Sophie’s heart sank. Joe’s departure meant their transportation left, too. This would halt their search for Francesca, the search that was going nowhere.

  She hugged him and patted his back. “Thank you for all your help. For being our friend and, of course, our driver. Even though we didn’t find Francesca, you gave us a lovely tour.”

  Joe gave her a double kiss. “I hate to abandon you and Will.”

  Sophie tried to hide the devastation she felt. “Please drive safely.”

  He turned to leave.

  With a moment of clarity, Sophie realized she didn’t know where Joe and Will had driven today.

  “Where did you go today, Joe?”

  He stopped and looked back at her. “Where we went yesterday. La Foce. The chapel. Montalcino.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “He asked to go back to the same places?”

  Joe nodded. “He got out a few times and walked. Like he was looking for something or trying to remember.”

  She grabbed his arm. “What did he say to you about these places?”

  Joe’s sorrowful expression answered her before he spoke the words. “That nothing looked like what he remembered.”

  70

  Sophie couldn’t enjoy the accomplishment of the successful dinner party.

  Joe left, and with him, our only form of transportation.

  Will didn’t see anything that looked familiar.

  She was furious with herself for letting Niccolò flirt with her—he was taken. What was I thinking?

  She smiled at the dinner guests when she served the courses but kept her eyes away from Niccolò and Isabella.

  She washed dishes through the evening, so only those from the last course would remain.

  She didn’t let Margherita and Joe down. That was the important thing, Sophie tried to tell herself. We don’t have any reason to hire a new guide and keep looking. She fought back the urge to cry.

  Finally, the guests readied to leave. They all stopped by to thank her, which boosted Sophie’s spirits a little.

  She watched the group through the kitchen window. Isabella put one hand on Niccolò’s waist. The stunning Italian stepped in closer to him.

  Isabella looked through the window at Sophie, and then back at Niccolò. Isabella’s hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, and then she kissed him.

  He hugged Isabella. Isabella tossed her hair, walked over to the American importer, and hooked her arm through his. Everyone except Niccolò walked up the street.

  Sophie smiled when Niccolò strolled into the kitchen. “Thank you for your help and expertise today. You saved the dinner.” She tried to keep her voice friendly, but nothing more.

  He crossed the room in a few broad steps and grabbed her waist. He hoisted her up. “You were fantastic.”

  He set her down and pulled out two clean glasses. Niccolò ducked into Margherita’s cellar and came back with an unopened bottle of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano Riserva.

  He uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. Niccolò offered Sophie one. He touched her glass with his. “To you, Sophie. Marco and Owen couldn’t keep their eyes off you, of course, and the food and service were perfect.”

  Sophie sipped the wine. “Thank you, but I was only your peon helper.”

  “No, not true.” He stepped in closer and pulled her glass from her hand. He placed both goblets on the counter.

  What is he doing?

  He pulled her into him and tilted his head down to kiss her.

  “Stop.” She pushed him away.

  “I’m sorry. Did I overstep the boundary?”

  “You have a girlfriend. One that you kissed in front of the kitchen window.” She flung her hand in that direction. “A girlfriend, lover, fiancée. What do you think I am? An easy American girl you can sweep off her feet because you’re a handsome Italian? That I don’t care if you’re cheating on your gorgeous lover?”

  “You’re wrong, Sophie.”

  She grew angrier by the second. “Isn’t that why you volunteered to help? Because you thought you could flirt your way into my bed? Or was it because you thought I couldn’t cook and you needed to save Isabella’s family from embarrassment with their important guests?”

  Her voice and fury had risen with each accusation. “Which is it, Niccolò? Or is it both?”

  He leaned back against the counter. His face split with a grin and he erupted with laughter.

  She picked up a wooden spoon and shook it at him. “Don’t you laugh at me!” Her lips trembled. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Shh. I’m not making fun of you, dear Sophie. I’m laughing because you are completely wrong.”

  Niccolò raised his hands into a “surrender” position. “Promise not to attack me with the spoon, and I’ll explain.” He picked up her wine glass and offered it to her. “Here. I think you need a glass of fine Italian wine after your work today.”

  She exchanged the spoon for the wine. She downed one big swallow, and then another. Not acceptable wine etiquette, but at this point, she didn’t care.

  He didn’t touch his glass. “One thing at a time. You were brave and generous to offer to help Margherita with this dinner.”

  “Joe volunteered me for the job.”

  He waved off her comment. “Doesn’t matter. You agreed to help.”

  “I,” he shrugged, “guessed you cooking a Tuscan dinner might be ...” He searched for the proper word.

  “A challenge?”

  “Yes, but I came this morning because I wanted to spend the day with you. We could have gone to one of the fine ristorantes in Montepulciano. I convinced Isabella to keep the reservation here because I wanted to be with you.”

  His attempt to explain himself infuriated her even more. It left only one reason for him to spend the d
ay with her. To finesse his way from guiding her in the kitchen to leading her into bed.

  Sophie reached for the wooden spoon.

  Niccolò’s hand covered hers, trapping both her hand and the spoon, on the counter. He shortened the distance between them.

  His other hand raised, and his fingers silenced Sophie’s lips. “Shhh. Please. Let me explain about Isabella.”

  Sophie stepped back away from him and pulled her hand out from under his.

  “Explain? Explain what? That she’s your Italian girlfriend and I could be your American girl? That a fling with you would be a vacation romp for me? That she allows your indiscretions?”

  She gulped in air and blinked her eyes to stall the tears “Or is it—”

  “Sophie. Stop.”

  Her lips trembled. Fury boiled inside her. Her fingers itched with the urge to slap him.

  He spoke in a steady voice. “Isabella is not my girlfriend.”

  “You kissed her moments ago in front of me.”

  “Sophie, Isabella kissed me. There’s a big difference.”

  “You looked like you enjoyed it.”

  Niccolò lifted his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  Sophie glared at him. “Yes.”

  A smile flickered across his face, but a pensive expression quickly replaced the smile. He stroked his chin, like a thoughtful professor.

  “Sophie, please give me a chance. Pretend to kiss me like Isabella. I think this will answer your questions.”

  “OK.”

  Niccolò stood in front of her with his arms at his sides. “Can you reenact the scene between Isabella and me?”

  She remembered every instant of the kiss. It scorched her like a branding iron and left its mark.

  “Start with when she kissed me.”

  Sophie placed her palms on Niccolò’s shoulders. A shudder ran through her. She leaned in and pretended to kiss him, but stopped short of meeting his lips with hers. “See? You kissed her.”

  “Sophie, please do exactly the same thing again.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Please? Again?”

  Sophie did as he asked.

  Rest my hands over his shoulders. Lean forward and pretend to kiss his lips.

  Niccolò’s hands cradled her cheeks. He met her lips. The warm tenderness of his mouth sent a shock of desire through her.

  He pulled back slightly and then kissed her again. This time, he did not pull away. Her eyes closed and she let herself surrender to the moment.

  His lips retreated slowly from hers, but his fingers didn’t part from her cheeks. Niccolò’s eyes locked on hers. “I kissed you. I did not kiss Isabella. Do you see the difference now?”

  Sophie nodded.

  Her lips trembled. She wanted his lips on hers again.

  She forced herself back to a thinking reality. “But she has been your girlfriend, right?”

  “No. Isabella wanted a relationship more than merely friends and business associates. I never allowed it. I don’t have a girlfriend. The last time I dated anyone was before I started working for the winery, about a year and a half ago.

  “The first time I saw you in the piazza, you intrigued me. You’re pretty, of course, but more than that, you looked genuine. Then I saw you dancing in the courtyard in Pienza. I had to learn more about you. Today was my chance to do that. My attraction to you is real, Sophie.”

  A mischievous grin lit his face. “What about you? Are you hiding a boyfriend, lover, partner, or husband from me?”

  His question broke the tension that hung over the room.

  Sophie shook her head. “None of the above. No boyfriend or dates since the beginning of the year.”

  The remainder of the bottle of wine disappeared. They shared their personal stories, joked, and, of course, interjected a healthy measure of kissing between the conversation and the sipping of their wine.

  Niccolò held Sophie’s hand on their walk to his motorcycle. Her cell phone rang.

  It was Vincenzo.

  Will had fallen down the mansion stairs.

  71

  Niccolò climbed onto the motorcycle and Sophie got on behind him. Niccolò ignored the speed limit on the way to her hotel.

  When they arrived, the stairway was empty.

  Sophie ran up the stairs, with Niccolò right behind her.

  Vincenzo had moved Will, with the assistance of the elevator, back upstairs to the lounge. They found him there, slouched in a chair with an untouched cup of tea before him.

  Will’s eyelids drooped and his mouth gaped open.

  Sophie knelt beside him. She rested her palm against his forehead and asked Vincenzo to bring him bottled water and a glass. He wasn’t running a fever, and his eyes, although weary, looked normal.

  Vincenzo poured the water. Will gulped it down. In response to questions from Sophie and Niccolò about what happened, he said, “I tripped.”

  After two glasses of water, he looked at Vincenzo and said, “Now I need a whiskey. Neat.”

  They all laughed.

  Will drank the shot of whiskey in one long pull. He nodded at Vincenzo, ignoring his feud with the man, and gestured to his glass. “Another.” Their feisty friend had returned.

  Sophie tried to object, but Niccolò put his hand on her arm. She understood his signal. Let him drink the whiskey. What does Will have to look forward to?

  Will, weakened from his day of touring, sat and sipped the second shot. Probably to keep his mind off his own failed day, he asked a few questions about Sophie’s day in the kitchen.

  Will’s normal color seeped back onto his face.

  Niccolò described for Will the dishes that Sophie prepared.

  “Thank you for rescuing Sophie,” Will said. “I know she can’t cook a lick, so you had to be the one doing all the work.”

  “I only stirred a few things.” Niccolò went behind the bar and rummaged in the cupboard below. He held up a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino for the others to see.

  “You’ve been hiding this, Vincenzo,” Niccolò said. A shadow flickered across Niccolò’s eyes.

  Vincenzo shrugged.

  Niccolò brought out three glasses and tossed euros on the counter. “This will cover the bottle plus some.” He pointed one finger at Vincenzo. “It’s enough. Don’t add a charge to their bill.”

  Vincenzo looked affronted. “No. Never. I would not do such a thing.” He busied himself rearranging the glassware on the shelves.

  Sophie invited Will and Niccolò to move to her balcony. “It’s lovely. The cool night air will be refreshing.” A nod from Niccolò confirmed that he knew her invitation was to remove them from Vincenzo’s hearing.

  Will sat in the wicker chair, and she and Niccolò sat side by side on the love seat.

  Niccolò gave Will a small portion of wine. “You downed two whiskeys, Will.”

  Their elderly friend snorted but offered no other objections.

  “What’s the deal between you and Vincenzo?” Sophie asked Niccolò in lowered tones. She didn’t know if their voices would carry to another floor.

  “Townspeople suspected Vincenzo’s father of collaborating with the Germans. Rumor has it that’s how his father hung on to this mansion during the war. It may not be true, but I don’t trust him.”

  Sophie thought back to how he hovered around them, close enough to eavesdrop. She nodded her agreement.

  “There are rumors and stories about other families, too. One of the markets in town changed ownership during the war. The family that had owned it for generations at first refused to sell their food to German soldiers.”

  Sophie tried to hide her excitement. “Where is it located?”

  Niccolò described the market.

  Joe and I stopped there—the place where his eggplant juggling prevented any useful inquiries. I need to go back. “Will you go there with me, to interpret?”

  “I’m going, too.” Will leaned forward in his chair.

  “I’ll take you both
if you want to go,” Niccolò said. “I don’t think it will be helpful, though. The original owners, good people, declined to sell to the Nazis.

  “German guards stood at the front door to prevent others from entering. The owners had no choice but to do business with the Nazis, who then announced they would no longer pay for food—it was theirs to take.”

  Will spoke with measured words. “What happened to the family who owned it before the war?”

  “The day the Germans confiscated all the food, the family disappeared. The next morning, when the troops discovered they had left, the store was given to a collaborator.”

  “Is the current owner a descendent of the collaborator?”

  Niccolò nodded.

  Will leaned forward in his chair. “Maybe the good people, the ones with principles, were Francesca and her father.”

  “The night you made bruschetta,” Niccolò said, smiling at Sophie, “Margherita told me about your search for Francesca, and that one of your clues had to do with a butcher shop.

  “The next day, I asked Isabella’s nonna about Francesca and stores that sold meat here prior to the war. She didn’t remember Francesca but told me about this particular business. I asked around but couldn’t find anyone who knew what happened to the original owner, or Francesca.

  “Stories of merchants driven out by the Germans are similar across Tuscany.

  “Even if this was Francesca’s family, the trail ends. I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t learn anything useful.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said, squeezing Niccolò’s hand, “for talking with Isabella’s grandmother and asking around town to help us.” Niccolò had done this for them after their one brief meeting.

  Will’s dejected face made Sophie ask about his drive today. She wanted to learn why he wanted to repeat their tour from the day before.

  “Will, today you asked Joe to return to the places we had already seen. Why?”

  “I ... I thought I recognized something.” Will shook his head. “But nothing looked like I remembered.”