by Gail Mencini
“You should be so lucky.” Stillman answered for her.
“What’s this about Bella giving lap dances?” Phillip’s dry voice came from behind her.
Bella turned to Phillip. “Do you always sneak up on people?”
As he smiled, wrinkles appeared at the corners of Phillip’s eyes. “I can’t seem to let go of the view of Florence from the outer garden paths. It’s hypnotic.” He crossed by her and extended a rigid hand to Stillman. In a flat voice, he said, “Thank you again for the reunion. Great idea.”
Bella wondered how long Phillip had lived without passion.
Stillman turned to the group by the tables. “I’m going to dig into that plate of meats,” he said, motioning to the salumi, prosciutto, and mortadella, “have a doppio espresso, and I’ll be ready for the day.” Without even looking back, he said, “Bella, have at it, princess, or there won’t be anything left.” He layered thinly sliced meats onto his plate. “Anyone seen Meghan this morning?”
“I’ve been down here since seven-thirty,” Hope said, “and I haven’t seen her.”
Lee pushed up from the table. “I’ll go knock on her door. Maybe she slept in.” Without a glance at any of them, he slipped into the building and disappeared.
“Uh-hmm.” Hope’s voice raised on the second syllable.
Bella remembered the connection between Lee and Meghan during that summer. She wondered whether their love affair had continued after Italy or ended, as Meghan had claimed, on that last day. Bella layered her plate with three paper-thin slices of the cured meats.
“Today we head into Florence for a special treat and a little touring,” Stillman said after downing his breakfast with an obvious appetite. “A small touring van will ferry five of the group down. I’ll join you in a second car, since our large van isn’t here today. Unfortunately, one of you will need to ride with me. Logistics, I’m afraid.”
Bella spoke quickly. “I’ll ride with you, Stillman.”
Stillman beamed at her. “Grazie.”
“Prego.” She answered with a soft voice.
Phillip leaned in toward her. “Did Stillman take you on a private tour of the estate this morning?”
Phillip’s query felt like an accusation. Damn it. How dare he? Her relationship with Stillman wasn’t his business. He had given up that right a long time ago.
33
While they rode into the city, Stillman chatted about the changes in Florence over the previous thirty years. Television accounts of ongoing art restorations following the Arno’s 1966 flood—a yawn-provoking topic of discussion in every gallery they had visited during their long-ago summer—still continued. Full of energy, he described how the Mafiosi still popped up across Italy, creating havoc and leaving unsolved crimes in their wake.
Stillman boasted about visiting Florence many times since their last weekend together. He told her that his favorite moments of those vacations were when he explored the surprising villages south of Florence. One small hill town, he told her with a secretive smile, was the inspiration for the reunion.
His reference to the hill towns reminded Bella about that infamous weekend with Phillip in Castellina-in-Chianti. A Tuscan village had set her life on a brand-new course thirty years ago. Would Stillman’s inspiration in a hill town now change her life as dramatically?
Bella could see acres of gardens scrolling past her window. Their car slowed down. They drove down a driveway shaded with a row of cypress trees and stopped beside a villa. She rested her hand on Stillman’s forearm. “I’d like to visit some of your favorite hill towns during this trip. After all, it sounds like I have them to thank for bringing you back into my life.”
“We’ll see,” Stillman said. “I’ll have to decide if I want to share them with anyone.”
That was a kick to Bella’s stomach. She had thought she was making headway and returning to Stillman’s good graces, but his comment indicated the opposite. Getting him to love her again might be more of a challenge than she had anticipated.
“When do you plan to tell everyone about David?” Stillman’s face was expressionless.
Sharing that part of her history thrilled and terrified her. She had dreamed of flinging barbed words at Phillip, telling him exactly what he had given up when he ditched her. He had abandoned not only her love, but also his son. The problem was that when that happened, Stillman would know the truth about David, too. Once Stillman knew the secret she had hidden from everyone, that Phillip had fathered her son, could he accept David?
Bella tagged with Meghan through their private tour of a small but storied non-public garden inside Florence’s walls. As they walked, Meghan chatted in wonder about the magnificence of the garden.
Giacomo had driven the van carrying the rest of the group. The wiry Italian’s arms gestured nonstop as he spoke. His tailored slacks moved fluidly with him, exposing handmade leather loafers when he walked and eliciting an admiring, and perhaps envious, muttered comment from Rune. Bella let Giacomo’s explanation of the gardens melt into background music.
Her mind zigzagged with indecision. When, and how, should she disclose that Phillip had fathered her son? Possible scenarios raced through her mind. It was impossible to pay attention to their guide, as he rambled on about the scattered sculptures and manicured botanicals. The group paused in front of a giant ginkgo biloba, which dwarfed the garden’s gazebo. The tree’s magnificent height contrasted with the sparse branches along its trunk.
Meghan’s cold fingers on Bella’s elbow pulled her to the back of the cluster of people. She whispered in Bella’s ear. “Are you all right?”
Bella shook off the question. “Probably jet-lagged.”
Meghan reached into the hemp bag that hung from her shoulder and extracted a slim bottle of water. “Drink more water.” Her hand slid into the bag again. This time she produced a bottle of pills. She tapped a couple into Bella’s hand. “They’re herbal. No side effects. Aid with digestion, travel stomach, bloating, and sleep.”
Bella gazed at Meghan. Her skin, while pale, did appear rested. But other than for her alert eyes, Meghan, in a new unbleached T-shirt and cotton skirt, didn’t broadcast a picture of health.
Bella returned the pills. “Water, yes, pills, no.”
The group moved ahead. Meghan charged forward to hear the explanations.
Bella felt Stillman’s eyes on her. Her feet propelled her forward with the rest of the group. Stillman’s surprising reticence at the end of their ride together replayed in her head. How would he react when he learned about David?
34
To Bella’s relief, Meghan took Bella’s place in Stillman’s car when they left the garden. The tightrope of flirting with Stillman to return to his good graces and, at the same time, wanting to blast Phillip had twisted Bella’s stomach into a knot.
They would all soon, perhaps today, talk about the years between college and the present—their work and families. Contemplating the onslaught of questions that would occur after she told them all that she had a son terrified Bella.
Damn it, even if it cost her Stillman, Bella was tired of hiding her past. If Stillman couldn’t deal with it, then so be it. Yes, she loved him and was tired of being alone. But she was almost fifty, a time for action. A second chance at life. What had been her biggest complaint about Phillip? His lying to her. Going down the path of dishonesty was not an option for Bella. On life’s chessboard, it was her move. But when? Her timing had to be perfect.
They drove across the Arno, up Via Cavour, and through the Piazza San Marco. Bella’s eyes found no joy in these landmarks. She fought to steady her breathing and, with it, her anxiety.
Their drivers let them out a few blocks beyond the Galleria dell’Accademia. Giacomo waltzed them past the masses of tourists standing in clumps along the sidewalk adjacent to the museum. Fiats and Vespas breezed by them, oblivious to the pedestrians who spilled onto the street as if they were last week’s garbage.
Kiosks of T-shirts, aprons, a
nd boxer shorts featuring the lower anatomy of Michelangelo’s famous statue cluttered the sidewalk along the queue. American tourists in shorts, crew socks, and tennis shoes snapped up the tacky souvenirs, their voices tittered in a suffocating muddle of sound. Tour groups clustered, perspiring and weary, at the entrance. Each set of bobbing heads huddled behind a guide, who spouted out instructions.
Giacomo’s voice competed with the background singsong of several foreign languages spoken simultaneously. Other guides held props—a red umbrella, an enormous sunflower, a sign, or even a striped clown hat perched on a stick. Bella silently thanked Giacomo for saving them from a similar fate, although she couldn’t imagine Rune tolerating any such humiliation.
They bypassed the long line of tourists waiting to buy tickets. Giacomo’s flirtatious banter with the woman guarding the door then moved them ahead of the other ticket holders. No queue for them, just a quick VIP saunter into the museum. Bella heard Rune emit a soft hoot of delight. Once inside, they needed no instruction from Giacomo, who handed them each a guidebook. Without hesitation, they bolted for David.
Bella stopped twenty feet short of the base. She wanted to take in the sensuality of the whole sculpture—alone. Perhaps the statue’s quiet strength could rein in her emotions. This marble David calmed her. The statue stopped her breath with its beauty.
During the ride here, Giacomo had hinted that controversy surrounded the restoration performed prior to his 500th birthday. It was hard to remember exactly what he had looked like thirty years before, but removing all those years of grime from his surface did add brilliance to his finish. Bella heard Rune up ahead.
“My God, they did clean up his act.” Rune circled the statue. He tromped around the nearly fourteen-foot piece as if it were a prop in a movie. “To my mind, this is a great example of edgy art.”
“Because he carved a massive sculpture from what others had discarded?” Hope asked.
“Because he rejected the effeminate style,” Rune said, consulting his guidebook, “of Verrocchio’s and Donatello’s Davids. No secret about Donatello’s proclivities, by the way. Their art was more the style of the day. But hey, Michelangelo carved a guy who actually could slay a giant.”
Lee stood riveted in front of David, his head tilted back. “Michelangelo certainly did his anatomical homework. I have a much better appreciation of that now, after med school.” He took two steps back. His head cocked to one side. His voice softened. “Sculpture has been my one enduring love.”
Behind her, Bella felt a presence.
“I like him better without the crowd,” Phillip said in a low voice, so that only she would hear.
She didn’t turn around. “So do I,” she said.
Phillip rested his hand on her shoulder. With effort, she fought the urge to step away from his touch. He traced her arm down to the tips of her fingers, sending a warm torrent rushing down her spine and over her cheeks. He quickly squeezed her hand and then let it go. Good thing—two more seconds of him touching her and Bella would have jerked away.
Happy that he couldn’t see her face, she forced herself to breathe slowly and act normally, as if it had been Lee or Rune who had touched her.
Meghan turned back and gestured for them to come closer. Thankful for the excuse to escape from Phillip, Bella said, “Let’s get a better look.” She raised her voice loud enough for the others to hear. “Giacomo, tell us about that restoration controversy you mentioned in the car.”
Stillman raised a silent eyebrow at Bella when she and Phillip moved to join the group’s semicircle in front of the famous statue. She felt her cheeks flush with heat. Damn it—that flush made her look as if she were a schoolgirl caught kissing by the lockers.
After they raced through the Galleria finding the highlights of the museum, they headed for a tiny ristorante that sat in the shadow of the Duomo. The packs of Americans—who always lunched at noon—had come and gone. The tiny space held no more than a dozen red-cloaked tables under the awning and another dozen inside.
Jet lag hit Bella, and she sank onto a vinyl-padded metal chair with relief. A twenty-something, longhaired Italian beauty passed out menus, took beverage orders, and then retreated into the dark recesses of the restaurant.
Meghan straightened in her chair and opened her menu. “We should order when she comes back. I think they want to close soon for the afternoon.”
Lee opened his menu. A sheen of perspiration capped his forehead. He sighed. “What’s on tap for the afternoon? The Duomo is open, as is the Uffizi, although we may want a day for that. If we go separate directions, I’ll visit the curator of a Leonardo da Vinci treasure discovered here in Florence. I’m hoping to see it while we’re here, and we’ve been exchanging e-mails.”
“Not me.” Rune stretched his arms over his head. “I’ve done my museum deal for the day. Hell, I’m done for the week. I want to check out the enotecas. I want wine, a place to sit,” he grinned, “and, if I’m lucky, interaction with the natives.”
“Shopping and exploring,” Hope said. Her brow furrowed with determination.“The Uffizi is too much for today. I say we browse artisan streets and shop in places that don’t close for the afternoon.”
“I’ll shop with you, if you want company,” Bella said.
“You’d come with me?” Hope’s face reminded Bella of a puppy craving affection.
“I’d love to. Meghan, want to join us in our quest for merchants who are open?”
Meghan shook her head. “No, I think I’ll find steps somewhere and relax. People-watch.”
Rune chuckled. “Pigeon-watch, you mean.”
Their waitress appeared at the table. She set down liter bottles of aqua naturale and glasses and opened the two bottles of Chianti Riserva that Rune had ordered.
“Grazie.” Bella smiled at the woman.
“Prego.” The woman kept her head lowered, attentive to her task.
“We lived in Firenze thirty years ago,” Hope said to their waitress. “A man named Pino worked in this restaurant then. Do you know him?”
Their waitress stopped filling glasses and straightened. She held the wine bottle in one palm. “Pino? He’s my uncle. He’s here every night, passing out limoncello and our own liquor made with bay leaves. He is the boss now. Did you know him well?”
“I loved that bay leaf liquor.” Meghan smiled at the younger woman. “We knew him well enough that even though we were students, Pino gave us as much of the liquors as we wanted, on the house.”
Hope snorted. “We paid for it with our lasagna consumption.”
“Then you should come see him. We are closed Monday. Come any other night.”
“Your English is very good,” Lee said.
“Here,” the woman gestured at the Duomo, “it has to be.” She shrugged. “English, French, German. Let me put your order in. My father, the chef, gets cranky if he doesn’t get to close on time.”
Giacomo leaned forward to scan his charges. He smiled at Hope. “In the direction of the Uffizi and Ponte Vecchio, I suggest Ciancibella for handmade jewelry and Bella Arte for beautiful handmade objects, the Ponte Vecchio itself for gold, of course, and Tesoro, across the river on Borgo San Jacopo. This tiny shop carries some of the most beautiful jewels in the city. I will check their store hours.” His index finger tapped the cellphone resting under his palm.
Hope grinned. “No need. Just give me directions and I’m ready to wander. I can window shop if all else fails. Trust me,” she said, patting her large leather bag, “I’ve got my husband’s money to spend, and I plan on doing just that. I’ll find shops open.” She winked at Bella.
“For you,” Giacomo said to Rune, “there is a reasonable enoteca near where we were earlier, Enoteca Tre, on Via degli Alfani. I’ll give you directions after lunch.”
The wine relaxed Bella. A warm haze settled over the table.
Citing a piece they saw this morning, Lee launched into a description of the restoration processes used on paintings and marble. Onl
y Meghan and Giacomo appeared to be listening.
Underneath Lee’s voice, Bella heard the sounds of the piazza—voices in passionate conversation, church bells, scooters, and cars. The fragrant mingling smells of meat, tomato, garlic, and baked cheese brought her focus back and made Bella realize she was hungry. The young waitress placed plain white pasta bowls in front of them all except Meghan, whose lunch was a small vegetable salad.
Bella savored the delicate noodles of her pappardelle with rabbit and porcini. “I tried to cook rabbit at home. Deboning it was more of a challenge than I imagined. And mine never tasted like this.” She closed her eyes on the next bite. It melted over her tongue.
Murmurs of delight rounded the table.
Meghan picked at her salad, dressed with only vinegar and oil. Her words burst out over the table, too loud for the moment. “After Karen’s daughter was killed in a car accident, I turned vegan. First I lost Karen, then her daughter. I decided to do all I could to be healthy.”
Rune paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I don’t call that healthy, sweetheart.”
Bella shot Rune her parent “disapproval” glare.
He responded by topping off Bella’s wineglass. “You need to loosen up. More of this will help.”
Bella pushed her wineglass away. She looked at Meghan. “Is it difficult finding adequate protein?”
Before Meghan could answer, Giacomo raised one hand in the air in front of him, smiled, and nodded. “With your permission, Signora Meghan, I have a place to show you after lunch. I think, perhaps, you would enjoy this shop very much.”
Meghan shook her head. “No. No, thank you. I’m tired. Sitting and watching people. That’s what I’ll do.”
“You’re tired because you don’t fuel the engine.” Rune gestured to Meghan’s salad. “Rabbit food sucks.”
Hope swatted Rune’s shoulder with the back of her hand.
“No problem.” Giacomo smiled at Meghan. “I’ll keep you company, then.” Meghan lowered her head. She stirred her salad with her fork.