“It’s warm here,” she said as they walked to a shiny, metallic gray car. Adriano pointed his key at the lock, which gave a slight beep.
“Yes, it is quite hot today,” he said. He opened the car door, took off his jacket, and put it on the back seat, then stripped off his tie and tossed it on top of it. He opened the trunk and stowed Sofia’s suitcase in it.
“Did you come directly from the office?” Sofia asked. He looked at her surprised. “Just because you’re dressed …,” she tried to find the right word, not wanting to sound nosy.
“Ah, yes, I did not have time to change,” he said. “Too much work.”
“I’m so grateful you’re taking the time to bring me to Vignaverde. I’d be lost by myself,” Sofia said as they sat in the car.
“It is my pleasure to help you.” Adriano gave her a quick smile. “I shall drive you to your hotel.” He reached for a piece of notebook paper on the dashboard and glanced at it. “This is it, is it not?” He showed her the paper.
Sofia was relieved he spoke English fluently. His way of expressing himself was a little formal, as if he had studied it at the university, and he spoke with an accent. But his friendly and warm behavior soothed her frazzled nerves somewhat.
“Yes, that’s it,” Sofia said, pointing at the note. “I think it’s right in the center of Florence. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, it is in the center.”
“Do you think it’s a decent place? I found it on the Internet.”
“I do not know the hotel but it is in a good area,” Adriano said. “Very convenient.”
“Perhaps I can do a little sightseeing tomorrow,” Sofia said. “I have a day before we go to Vignaverde.”
“Have you ever been to Firenze, Sofia?” he asked.
“Yes, but a long time ago.”
“It is a very busy city, lots of tourists,” Adriano said. “Too many tourists, crazy.” He sounded irritated and waved his hand as if he wanted to chase away some imaginary people. He seemed to have the typical love-hate relationship many people living in tourist-mobbed places had. They resented the intrusion of the outsiders but loved the money they brought.
“Florence is a wonderful city, though, from what I remember when I was here last with my father. So much art, so much to see.”
“Yes, Firenze is a very interesting city,” Adriano agreed. He gave her a quick glance, then focused on the road again when they reached the autostrada or freeway.
“Mi dispiace,” he said. “I would like to express my condolences on the death of your father. Forgive me for not thinking of it before.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” Sofia said. “But thank you.”
“He … died suddenly, your papa, no?”
The informal term papa and Adriano’s gentle, warm voice brought tears to Sofia’s eyes. She blinked and nodded. “Yes, a heart attack.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
Sofia turned to him. “Did you know my father well?”
“I knew him a little,” Adriano said. “We always met when he was in Italy, of course, since I took care of his finances and checked the accounting of his vineyards. And I also went to the estate with him a few times.” He paused. “He was a very nice man, your papa. Very passionate about wine. And very generous. It is sad that he died so young.”
“I know. I miss him terribly.” Sofia swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat.
Adriano nodded. It was quiet for a while, then he cleared his throat. “And now you have come to claim your property.” It was the voice of the lawyer now.
“I guess you could call it that,” Sofia said with a wistful smile. Then in a more serious tone. “Until a few weeks ago I didn’t even know I owned property here … I don’t know how much you know, how familiar you are with the circumstances.”
Adriano gave her a quick glance. “Giovanni told me. I am quite familiar with the circumstances. He had to tell me, because I am representing you.” He sounded apologetic.
It took Sofia a moment to realize he meant John. “Oh, I’m glad you know. I’m so grateful for your help. I wouldn’t know what to do. This is all very new for me.”
“I shall help you with all the legal matters and I shall introduce you to the family … idiota,” he yelled, as a car passed them at high speed and cut them off.
Sofia flinched. Adriano slapped the steering wheel, changed the lane and passed the car, honking and staring at the driver, his now fiery dark eyes shooting daggers. He took a deep breath and glanced at Sofia. “Scusami,” he murmured. The smile was back.
He stepped on the gas. Sofia tried to see the speedometer but it was in kilometers. She figured he must be driving at least eighty. He is Italian, she thought. Gentle and warm one moment, furious the next.
They approached the center of the city and Adriano slowed down as they drove through the narrow streets. Sofia took a deep breath. She was grateful not having to drive herself in this mess of small cars, motorcycles, scooters, and tourists crossing the streets without checking for cars.
“Will you be able to park near the hotel?” Sofia asked. “I read in my travel guide that you can’t park in the center.”
“This is correct, yes, but I have a permit, since I often work in the city,” Adriano said. “It is difficult to park though, even with a permit, but I hope we shall be lucky.”
At the hotel, which was close to Casa di Dante, the house where the poet allegedly had lived, Adriano stopped the car on the sidewalk. They got out and walked to the hotel lobby. Adriano waited until Sofia had checked in and got the key to her room.
“Go and inspect the room and come back to let me know if it is to your liking,” he told her.
The room was small but clean and quiet, away from the busy streets. Sofia dropped off her baggage and came back to the lobby. Adriano was talking to the receptionist and a man standing next to her. He introduced Sofia to the man, who turned out to be the manager of the hotel.
“If you have any questions and need help tomorrow with sightseeing, just ask at the desk,” Adriano said.
“I recommend making reservations if you want to visit the Uffizi gallery and other places tomorrow. We can do that for you.” The manager gave her a big smile.
Sofia was grateful for the help and the friendly reception. After accompanying Adriano to his car, they shook hands.
“I am sorry I cannot take care of you during the day tomorrow because I am very busy at work. But I hope I may have the privilege of inviting you to dinner tomorrow evening. We can talk some more about Vignaverde and the famiglia,” Adriano said.
“I’d love to have dinner with you. I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time,” Sofia said.
“Not at all. It will be a pleasure.” He smiled and gently touched her arm. “Have a good time sightseeing tomorrow. And if you need anything, ask the receptionist. And here is my business card. I shall not be in Florence directly during the day but if you have a problem …” He pulled out a card from his wallet and gave it to her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” she said. “But thanks.”
When Sofia was alone, she walked back to the hotel, feeling very tired all of a sudden. Not having slept much during the night on the plane as well as the few nights before her departure had caught up with her. She wanted to call Emma before going to sleep but she’d forgotten to recharge her cell phone and she didn’t know how to work the phone in her hotel room. It would have to wait until the next day. She missed Emma but was too exhausted to feel sad. The minute she put her head on the pillow, she fell asleep.
Chapter 6
The next morning after a quick breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and rolls with butter and jam, Sofia grabbed her camera and headed out. She was refreshed and ready to tackle the tourists and the art. She had a Firenze card, which the receptionist at the hotel had obtained for her. It would let her see some of the sights, including the Duomo and the Uffizi gallery, without having to wait in line for two to three hour
s. Seeing the long lines, she was glad she’d bought this somewhat pricey pass. She walked the short distance to the Arno River and crossed the famous Ponte Vecchio with its jewelry stores and carts, then headed back to the Uffizi.
One of her favorite painters in the Uffizi was Sandro Botticelli. She spent some time admiring the playful depiction of springtime with its mixture of idealized and realistic faces of the pagan characters in his paintings. There was so much to see at the gallery but after a few hours, Sofia was getting tired from taking in all these works of art. She would come back later during her stay in Tuscany and see more of the paintings. It was almost noon and she decided to look for a place to eat before the lunchtime crowd headed to the restaurants.
Outside, the sun, which had been hiding behind clouds in the early morning, was out and lit up the beautiful Renaissance and medieval buildings. It was August and it would be getting hot in the afternoon. Sofia decided to buy a sandwich somewhere and have a picnic lunch. She remembered from her former visit with her father that they had bought sandwiches and eaten in a small park at Oltrarno, the old part of Florence south of the Arno River. Trying to remember where it had been, she walked across one of the bridges and made her way through the cobblestone streets. Inhaling the different smells coming from the restaurants, coffee shops, and small corner grocery stores made her aware of how hungry she was. In one of the stores, she bought a couple of rolls, prosciutto, and cheese along with fruit and a bottle of mineral water.
There were signs pointing toward the Boboli Gardens where she had been with her father as well. She would have loved to visit the beautiful grounds full of works of art again, but that would have taken another few hours.
As she strolled through this quaint and less touristy neighborhood with its small shops and art galleries, memories of her father flooded her. He’d been in this city many times and twice she had accompanied him. How wonderful would it be if they could’ve been here together now? Why did he have to die so soon and why hadn’t he confided in her? All of a sudden, this beautiful city made her feel lonely. Tears rose to her eyes and she took a deep breath, trying to soothe the ache in her chest. When she turned the corner, she saw a church she recognized. It was the Santo Spirito church her father had taken her to. She remembered that the interior had been designed by Brunelleschi who had also constructed the dome of the Duomo. There were a few artworks by Michelangelo inside, too.
After a quick walk through the church, Sofia sat on a bench on the Piazza Santa Spirito and unpacked her lunch. Taking a bite of the fresh bread, topped with tasty prosciutto, she smiled. Sitting in that peaceful spot, she felt more content again.
She was so grateful having found the entry in Henry’s journal. At least she knew now that he felt sorry for what he’d done. Still she couldn’t help remembering all these years she’d trusted him unconditionally only to realize now that this trust had not been mutual. How could he have misjudged her so terribly? Did he know his own daughter so little that he was afraid she would reject him when she learned the truth? She’d read the journal entry over and over again. It was like a conversation he’d begun, which had been cut short by his death. She was still too confused and angry at him, but eventually, it would be up to her to continue the conversation. Meeting her sister was a first step.
On her way back to the Duomo after lunch, Sofia stopped at one of the many cafeterias for an espresso. In the afternoon, she had planned a stroll through the Duomo. As with the Uffizi gallery, her Firenze pass allowed her to go inside without waiting in the long line. The Duomo with its marvelous dome by Filippo Brunelleschi, the Baptistery with its bronze doors, designed by Ghiberti, and the Campanile—the bell tower or Giotto’s Tower—took up the rest of the afternoon. The beauty of the artworks dispersed her feeling of melancholy. In spite of all the turmoil, it was exciting to be here. Perhaps she would even move here one day. She could ask Mr. Gori about the legal requirements. As a lawyer, he might know.
Adriano Gori picked Sofia up at eight o’clock. By then she was starved. She hadn’t eaten anything since her light lunch and she wasn’t used to the late dinner hours of the Italians. Adriano met her in the lobby. He’d parked his car in one of the public lots and had walked to the hotel.
Sofia had put on one of the few dresses she’d packed, a sundress with a blue-and-purple pattern that matched the color of her eyes and flattered her light-brown hair with the blond highlights. She hadn’t expected to need to dress up, living on a vineyard in Tuscany, but she didn’t want to give the impression of a sloppy tourist, in case Adriano was wearing a suit again. To her relief, he was dressed in slacks and a lightweight sports jacket.
“You look very pretty,” he said with a smile as he opened the hotel door for her.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling her face flush.
“We shall walk to the restaurant. It is right down the street,” Adriano said. He glanced at her shoes. She was wearing sandals with a small heel.
“Yes, that’s fine,” Sofia said. “They’re comfortable,” she added, motioning at her shoes.
“Good, you never know with young ladies.” He chuckled.
“Do you have children, Adriano?” Sofia remembered John telling her that Adriano was married.
He nodded. “Oh, yes, two of them, a girl and a boy, well, the boy is a young man now. He must be about your age.” His face stretched into a smile. “Lucia is sixteen and Marcello is twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-four,” Sofia said.
Adriano shrugged. “Almost the same.”
They walked a short block along Via de Alighieri to the ristorante Paoli. “They serve typical Tuscan food and it is also well-known by tourists, so I made reservations,” Adriano said. “Did you have a nice time sightseeing today?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. There is so much to see. I’ll have to come back,” Sofia said.
“You will be here for a few months. Perhaps you can come back to Firenze another time.”
Sofia nodded. “That’s what I’m planning to do.”
When they entered the restaurant, Sofia gasped. It was a spectacular place with high, decorated, vaulted ceilings and walls full of paintings and photos. It looked more like a church than a restaurant. The atmosphere, however, was anything but contemplative. Friendly, jovial waiters greeted them and led them to the reserved table. One of the waiters produced two large, impressive-looking menus. There was a lot of laughter and cheer from both the guests and the people who worked there. A delicious smell of roasted meat and all kinds of other food and spices wafted from the kitchen.
“Wow,” Sofia said. “This is quite a place.”
Adriano smiled at her. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. Do you come here often?”
Adriano laughed out loud, which seemed at odds with his otherwise mild-mannered demeanor. “No, usually not. I prefer the more quiet places. But I wanted to show you something of the … how do you say … flashy side of Firenze. And the food is very good here.”
“Well, this is certainly a wonderful place to have dinner. Thank you for taking me here.” Sofia looked around at the many energetic waiters who served the meals with a flourish.
“Also, one of your presidents ate here.” Adriano pointed at a bust on the wall.
“Who is it?” Sofia asked. “I don’t even recognize him. Oh, wait, here it says.” She pointed at the menu. “Woodrow Wilson, the twenty-eighth president of the United States. I didn’t know this.”
“Well, that is good company, no?” Adriano said as he studied the menu, then looked up. “What would you like to eat?”
Sofia sighed. “Too many choices.”
Adriano perused the menu. “I can make a suggestion. If that is all right with you?”
Sofia nodded. “Yes, please.”
“However, you have to help me with the wine. You are probably an expert,” Adriano said.
“Oh, no.” Sofia laughed. “My father was the expert. I love wine, particularly red wine, but I don’t know too
much about Tuscan wine, since I was here before I was allowed to drink.”
When their enthusiastic waiter came back, Adriano asked him to recommend a wine. That led to a lively exchange between the two men in rapid Italian, of which Sofia understood hardly anything. After they seemed to have made a decision, Adriano told her that the waiter recommended a Sangiovese and Merlot blend, a so-called Super Tuscan.
“These are the same grapes that grow on your vineyard,” he said.
“Oh, well, then it must be good.” Sofia chuckled.
They decided to start with a salad, which to Sofia’s amusement was elaborately prepared at the table. While Adriano ordered a steak, which was served with a side of mashed potatoes, Sofia decided on a smaller piece of meat, a veal chop with truffles and vegetables. They skipped the traditional pasta after the salad and went right to the main menu.
After a few bites of her tender chop and the savory vegetables, Sofia sighed with pleasure. “This is the first solid meal I’ve had since I came here and it’s wonderful.”
Adriano seemed relieved. “I am happy you like it.”
“Tell me,” Sofia said after taking a sip of wine, “do you know what I’d have to do if I decided to stay in Tuscany permanently? I mean live here.”
Adriano gave her a measured look. “It depends. Immigration is not my specialty but I can find out for you. You think you may want to stay here?”
Sofia shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it. It all depends, of course, how I feel once I get to Vignaverde. I love Italy, but … it’s probably a pipe dream. I really don’t know.”
“You will have time to decide,” Adriano said. “You should wait until you meet the famiglia. I wanted to tell you a little about them. We can have dessert and an espresso and talk.”
Sofia nodded. She felt Adriano looked concerned. Just then, the waiter pushing the dessert trolley stopped at their table and pointed at a display of delicious-looking pastries. Sofia wasn’t exactly hungry anymore but she couldn’t resist and chose the fresh strawberries with cream. Adriano picked a small profiterole or cream puff. They ordered espresso and Adriano encouraged her to order a digestivo, an after-dinner drink, but Sofia declined.
The Italian Sister (The Wine Lover's Daughter, Book 1) Page 3