BEFORE THEY LEFT the museum, Betta searched the Internet for a phone number to go with the street name, but nothing more was listed. Excited to help, she had printed out directions to Montefollonico and had even booked the only hotel in the village.
“Less than four hours drive,” she had said.
They checked out of the Grand Vesuvio, loaded their luggage, and were driving north back to Rome and beyond to Tuscany. Annie debated calling her grandmother, but it would only be around five in the morning. She decided to wait until there was something concrete to tell later.
“I hope this is not a wild goose chase,” she said to Janice, shifting gears, and finally getting the hang of the stick shift. “What if we get to Montefollonico and find out they moved back to the south? To Sicily, for instance?”
“Then we go to Sicily,” Janice said.
“What if Benito has since died, and he has no children?”
“Then at least you know what happened. Do you always think of the worst-case scenario?” Janice asked.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Annie said, grinning back at Janice.
“You have got to stop. I don’t remember you being that way in New York. You’re always the positive one. I’m the cynical one,” she said.
“I hid it in New York because everything was so predictable.”
“How was New York ever predictable?” Janice asked.
“My New York was predictable because I had a job and knew what I was doing every day. I lived in the same place for ten years. Now I’m back home, living with my grandmother, without a job, trying to overcome my father’s legacy, and terrified to marry the most wonderful man I have ever known. I feel a little as if the rug was pulled out from under me,” Annie said.
“You probably needed the rug pulled out from under you. You can’t live with an apartment full of flight attendants forever,” Janice said.
“Have some sympathy,” Annie said
“Well stop this what-if business. Those words will put you in a mental health hospital. If you’re going to do the what ifs go the other way. My high school art teacher always said ‘What if is the gateway to creativity.’”
“Okay, okay. Don’t you need a nap or something?”
Janice grinned at her and leaned back in the seat.
***
They skirted Rome where the traffic was considerably thicker. Annie found herself driving faster, keeping pace with the other cars. She was getting the feel of the Ferrari and she liked it.
In the last hour of the drive, the landscape changed. Hillsides were covered in vineyards, olive groves, and farms. Walled cities sat atop jutting hills providing protection and giving watchers visibility for miles around. Annie thought how different this was from Kentucky, where towns frequently sat down in valleys next to rivers or creeks, not on the tops of hills away from a water source. But medieval times were different; the ability to protect the towns depended on creating a fortress with long views of the landscape.
“Can we take a smaller road or is it the A1 all the way?” she asked Janice, who was studying the map. “It’d be nice to see more of the countryside.”
“Looks like we’re getting off about fifteen minutes from here and then it’s a small road,” Janice said.
The road wound around, up hills and down, passing more olive groves, vineyards, and cheese factories offering tastings of pecorino, the area specialty. Finally, there was the sign to Montefollonico, and they turned onto an even smaller road. Betta had told them it was a very small village—piccolo she had said in Italian—but Annie couldn’t even see a village. Finally, winding around the backside of a hill, it came into view. Like many of the other hilltop towns, it was surrounded by an ancient stone wall.
“Our hotel is actually outside the city wall, at the base of the village. There’s the sign for it,” Janice said.
It felt good to get out of the car and stretch. Annie stood for a moment in the parking lot, enjoying the flowers and trees while Janice barreled her way into the reception area.
When Annie finally followed her inside, Janice was bent over paperwork. A blonde-haired woman introduced herself as Carlotta.
“We have your room ready,” she said and handed Janice a key. “You will like it. It’s a big room with a nice view of the valley. Alfonso will bring your bags. Please follow me.”
They walked around to the side of the building. Carlotta used her own key to unlock the door and usher them inside. “It is quite lovely, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Annie said. The Val d’Orcia stretched out below them in a stunning display visible from the large window.
“Carlotta, can you tell us how to get to Via dei Colli?” Janice asked.
“Si, it’s just on the other side of the village, the only road going down into the valley. It’s a very long road, beautiful for seeing the farms.”
“Do you happen to know Benito Gianelli?”
“No, but I live in Montepulciano. Does this man live on that road?” Carlotta asked.
“Yes,” Janice said. “Or we think so anyway.”
“You can stop and ask along the way, but I would not go tonight. It will be dark soon and the road is narrow with many turns,” she said. “I suggest you have dinner and go tomorrow morning. We have a lovely restaurant here, which is quite good. There are also three restaurants in the village.”
Janice looked at Annie, silently asking for her opinion.
“I’d like to go into the village tonight. Perhaps tomorrow night at your restaurant?”
“Certainly. I suggest for your first night in the village, try La Botte Piena. It is in the middle of the square. I recommend a wrap since it can be windy. The other restaurants are good as well, but this is in the center of town. I will put you down to dine with us tomorrow night and you can let me know tomorrow if you need to adjust your reservation. Alfonso will bring you a map of the area. If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, I wish you good night.” They thanked her and Carlotta closed the door as she left.
***
An hour later, they had both showered, dressed, and were walking uphill to the village. They passed a bar serving coffee and libations to customers on outdoor tables. Three old men sat by the medieval gate. Janice said “buonasera” to them and they returned the greeting.
Sandstone and brick houses lined the stone streets, the hard surfaces broken by brilliant begonias in terra-cotta planters ranging from red to coral to pink and all shades in between. Climbing vines grew out of pots placed next to the walls. Wooden doors in hues of chestnut brown and walnut had large iron knockers, keeping what lay beyond a mystery to the street traveler.
Iron light fixtures hung from long arms high over the streets. As they walked the stone streets, they discovered a bank, a pharmacy, several churches, three restaurants, and a small grocery store. There were a couple of shops selling everything from small antiques to old jewelry to hand-sewn linens. In less than an hour, they had covered the entire village, walking up and down each street and ending at the entrance to the gardens of the Palazzo. None of the businesses were open.
They sat by the medieval gate and faced the bar, where most of the town’s activity seemed to be centered. Men and women were playing cards together; some had glasses of wine or orange aperitifs. Several were drinking nothing, intent only on conversation.
“Do you want me to ask anybody here?” Janice said.
“I don’t know how without causing a scene. We’re already quite obvious,” Annie said.
“Should I ask the bar owner?” Janice said.
“It’d be like going to Bill’s Diner and asking him about Beulah. He’d call her immediately and ten other people would hear in the process. It’d be all over town before we have dinner. No, let’s wait and ask at the restaurant when we’re not quite so noticeable.”
“Maybe it should get all over town fast, then we will know sooner than later,” Janice said.
“I don’t feel right about it. What if Benito is here and he is Ephraim’s son. This is a private matter for Benito and his family. Maybe no one knows his father was American. Here we come into town like typical Americans blustering our way through to get what we want and forgetting how he might feel in the process. I want to handle it carefully.”
“You’re right. Just remember I am a typical blustering American and a New Yorker on top of that, so it seems like a waste of time, but I get it.” Janice smiled at her.
“Thank you for suggesting this trip and especially for coming with me,” Annie said.
“You’re my best friend. What else am I going to do?” Janice said, and then looked at her watch. “Time for dinner.”
They were seated on the patio in a corner table for two. Drink orders were taken and they were brought sparkling mineral water and a glass of prosecco.
“This stuff is good,” Janice said. “Less alcohol than wine and plenty of fizz.”
Annie took a sip. “A little like champagne,” she said. “But better.”
A bag of bread was brought out with much ceremony of rolling down the edges of the bag to make the bread more accessible. Olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper were all placed on the table.
“Scusi,” Janice said to the young girl who brought the bread. “Vive qui a Montefollonico?”
“Io vivo a Montepulciano,” she said, pointing in the direction of another hill across the valley.
“Grazie,” Janice said. “She doesn’t live here.”
A waiter came to take their order and spoke excellent English. They ordered antipasto to share and the special to share, and then each ordered a green salad to follow. The waiter was leaving when Janice asked in English, “Do you live here in Montefollonico?”
“Si, yes, this is my restaurant. I live just there,” he said and pointed to the upstairs of the restaurant.
“Ah, so you are the owner. Do you happen to know Benito Gianelli?” she asked.
“Si, si, I know Benito,” he said. Annie held her breath, waiting.
“Great! We’re looking for his house on this road. Can you tell us where?” Janice pointed to the map.
“No, no you will not find him there,” he said.
Just then, someone from another table called to the owner. “Excuse me,” he said and left them. Annie felt like an eternity passed, but in only a few minutes the restaurant owner returned and pointed to the map.
“Benito used to live there, but no more. His son lives there now.”
“What happened to Benito?” Janice asked.
“He is just there,” the restaurateur pointed down a dark street.
“Down there?” Janice said, pointing.
“Pass the pharmacy, but on same side. A big wooden door, number is fourteen, I think.”
“Grazie,” Janice said, as he moved away. “He’s here,” Janice said, hissing the words across the table.
Annie’s throat constricted and she closed her eyes. Benito was here.
Janice called for the check and thanked the restaurateur when they made their way out.
“We still don’t know who Benito is. We only know he was the one who made the posting,” Annie said, afraid to get her hopes up, as they navigated the cobblestone street.
“There you go again,” Janice said. “It has to be a family member. Have faith.”
Yes, Annie thought. She needed faith. And to pray Benito would receive this news well, if they actually met Ephraim’s son tomorrow.
Via Coppoli was the name of the street. They looked for number fourteen past the pharmacy and on the same side. It was just as the restaurant owner said, a big wooden door with an iron knocker on it. Vines climbed from terra cotta pots on each side of the entrance and wound up and over the top of the door. Above the vines, a small, round window showed only darkness from the inside.
Annie stared at the window, wondering about the living and breathing family beyond. She wished them a restful sleep tonight. If Benito were Ephraim’s son, what she had to tell them tomorrow would change their lives forever.