Chapter 11

Sophie walked with us for a short distance, but near the Duomo, as Alex and I headed toward the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, the direction that would take us eventually to the convent, Sophie went another way. She said she had not been to Ponte Vecchio yet, and she wanted to see the famous bridge, lined with shops that sold silver and gold. “I will not buy the silver or gold, but I can look,” she said. Since lunch, Sophie didn’t seem as spontaneous as before. I was sure she had said more to us than she had intended to say. Now she was more guarded.

Alex and I avoided the main street by the Duomo, with its heavy pedestrian traffic, but kept walking toward the grand Church of Santa Maria Novella. I said, “I suppose we know now what Sophie is doing in Florence.”

“You may know, but I’m not sure I do,” Alex said.

“It seems obvious to me, Alex. She has come to Florence to meet—should I say confront?—Bianca Moretti,” I said. We stopped to wait for a light.

“Confront? Do you think she’ll cause a scene at the villa on Friday? And how, I wonder, would her father have met Bianca? I suppose in the course of his travels—and we don’t know much about Bianca. She may take trips on her own, without Raff.”

“Ah, Alex, you’re becoming as curious as I am,” I said.

“I sincerely doubt it,” he said, as the light at the crosswalk turned green.

Farther on the main thoroughfare, Via Dei Fossi, I remembered to tell Alex about my conversation with Paul. Dinner tonight—just me, and that was fine with Alex, as I knew it would be. A dinner party tomorrow night that would include Alex and Paul’s daughter, Isabella.

“She’s here? In Florence? With Paul?” Alex gave a dubious look.

“Apparently she’s going to visit a friend in Cortona this weekend, but tomorrow is her birthday. That’s the purpose of the dinner party,” I said.

“Should we take gifts?” Alex asked.

I hadn’t thought of that. I groaned, not that I minded buying a gift, but choosing for a stranger was hard. “I’m sure we should. How about if I get something from both of us?”

“Excellent idea,” Alex said.

After Dublin, I had told Alex about the revelation that Paul had a daughter. It wasn’t as if there was anything wrong with Isabella’s sudden appearance in Paul’s life. Her mother had divulged, just before she died, that Isabella’s father was Paul Broussard. They’d had a whirlwind marriage in New York thirty-something years ago, and when it had ended, she was pregnant, but she didn’t tell Paul. He had returned to Paris and never knew about Isabella.

There was the logical question: Was Paul absolutely certain? Yes, DNA testing had confirmed that Isabella was, indeed, Paul’s daughter. His thorough investigation had caused a huge problem. When Paul had first insisted on the test, Isabella attempted suicide. Since that time, Paul had rented an apartment for her in Paris, besides her New York residence. I’d confessed to Alex that although Paul had a great fortune to spend as he wished, I hated to see Isabella taking advantage, if that was what she was doing.

Alex had reminded me that it was Paul’s decision, whether wise or foolish.

“So—we’ll get to meet Isabella,” I said now. I told Alex that Paul apparently had been surprised when she’d arrived in Paris. Obviously they communicated on a regular basis, and she knew he was flying to Florence, but she hadn’t asked if she could hitch a ride so she could visit a friend. She had assumed. Wouldn’t you expect a thirty-four-year-old daughter to ask?

“She sounds a little like Sophie—who is eighteen. So she says,” Alex said. We laughed. We had crossed a bridge and now were in the Oltrarno district, not far from the convent.

“Why don’t you go on, and I’ll look around for a birthday gift for Isabella?” I said. Alex was easily persuaded. I could see the fatigue in his drooping shoulders. I’d tried not to walk too fast, but it had been a long way from the Accademia.

I began to window-shop. I was thinking of a piece of jewelry for Isabella—not expensive, of course. A bracelet, necklace, or earrings. I expected that she had pierced ears, but what if she didn’t? So earrings were out.

On a side street that I took because it was on my way to the convent, I passed a shop that was dark, with a notice on the door that looked official. Strange, in the midst of all the other lively activities. Next door was a cheery ceramics shop. I went inside, looked around, and struck up a conversation with a woman who was rearranging some of the items on the shelves. Yes, she said, the shop I asked about was the one that someone broke into Tuesday night. A terrible thing, she said, that the man who slept there was attacked and died before he reached hospital.

A robust man came out from the back, scowling, and spoke sharply to her. I didn’t have to know Italian to understand. He didn’t want her talking to me. Her husband, I imagined, both of them near my age. She turned to me and said in an apologetic tone, “Is there anything else?”

The man continued to watch me but said nothing. I bought a colorful ceramic bowl for myself, thanked the woman, and left the shop.

Still looking for a birthday gift, I paused at a few shops that sold jewelry, but the merchandise in the windows was too pricey for my purposes. In one of the high-end shops, Varinia from the convent was bending over a display case. Carlo, leaning forward in his wheelchair, was also examining the jewelry. Apparently he’d made a swift recovery.

Maybe tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I can shop for a birthday gift. The afternoon was getting away from me. And then in the window of an unpretentious little shop, I saw a simple silver bracelet with delicate filigree, similar to one my husband once gave me from Tiffany’s. I still wore it often but hadn’t brought any jewelry of value with me. Losing my luggage on the trip to Provence had made an impact. I went inside the shop, found that the bracelet was not inexpensive but was affordable, appropriate as a gift from both Alex and me. I bought it, had it wrapped, and hurried to the convent. In just three hours, I would be seeing Paul.

* * * * *

But that didn’t happen.

I had left my phone in my room while I showered in the bathroom across the hall. The text from Paul—Call me, please, Jordan—told me something had gone awry. I could practically hear the regret in the written words. Isabella, I thought. Something Isabella had done or not done had spoiled our plans for the evening.

As it turned out, I was wrong about Isabella but not wrong about our plans for the evening. Paul was still in Paris. His plane had a mechanical problem and was being repaired as we spoke. A minor thing, he assured me. I’m sure he saw no reason to get technical about the problem. The mechanic was confident that everything would be in working order, everything checked out, absolutely, and the flight could take place tonight.

“But I am sorry to tell you”—that regretful tone—“that even if we could take off within the next two hours, it will be late when we land at Peretola, and as you know the airport is some distance from Florence, so by the time I arrive at the hotel, I think it will be—too late.”

“I get it,” I said.

“Jordan, I am disappointed, too,” he said.

Realizing how impertinent I must have sounded, I amended my tone. “It’s not your fault. I know that. Yes, I’m disappointed, but I’ll look forward to the dinner party tomorrow night. By the way, Alex is delighted to accept your invitation.”

“I am delighted to hear it. But must you and I wait until then? We have tomorrow.” He quickly added, “I understand that you may have plans—but perhaps you would find a small window of time for coffee, a glass of wine in one of the piazzas, a walk along the Arno?”

“Alex and I have reservations for the Uffizi,” I said, as certain as Paul surely was that I would find a small window of time for him, but not making it too easy.

“The Uffizi. Ah, a most wonderful gallery. If you would enjoy—shall we say a V.I.P. tour—I am sure I could arrange it with the director. He is a friend.”

Of course he was.

“It would give me great pleasure to take you and Alex through the gallery.”

I would have felt silly now, saying that Alex and I already had tickets for a tour. No tour could match what Paul Broussard could show and tell us about the famous gallery. We made our plans for late morning. Paul said again how sorry he was that this thing had happened, and I said, “So am I.” We were silent for a moment, and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking, that something always seemed to get in the way, as if destiny did not want us together.

Paul wouldn’t hear of meeting at the gallery. He insisted on coming to meet us at the convent. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, and I echoed his words, trying to be excited, knowing that it wouldn’t be long, knowing that it would be wonderful. But I couldn’t shake my disappointment.

Alex was expecting me to be with Paul tonight, and I would leave him to whatever plans he had. I would tell him at breakfast what lay in store for us tomorrow.

I spent most of the evening in my room, reading about the Uffizi, hoping I would be at least conversant with Paul as he led us through the gallery that holds the greatest collection of Italian paintings in the world. After night had settled, I went to the vending machine. Luigi passed by, carrying a tool box. We exchanged nods and smiles. Luigi, like Ivonna, worked long hours. I took my sparkling water to the garden for a while. The air was sweet. I sat on a stone bench close to the fountain. The water flowing from the mouth of the lamb into the base of the fountain made a soft mist that was refreshing as it reached my arms. I looked up at what was Alex’s room and saw that the light was on, but after a few minutes, the room suddenly went dark. An early night for my travel-weary uncle wasn’t a bad thing. I smiled as I imagined Alex’s delight upon hearing who our guide at the Uffizi would be tomorrow.

I made it an early night, myself. After texting with my children—only Michael and Catherine taking the time to text back, but then they were college students who were most likely always on their phones—I put on my jammies. The night air had turned cool. As I shut my windows, I saw Sophie in the garden, lighting a cigarette. Ivonna joined her and lit up, as well. Maybe Sophie had found a friend. I had the feeling she really needed one.