Chapter 19

Sleep was a long time coming, but when I finally settled down, I may not have moved for seven whole hours. I woke around eight o’clock, refreshed, thinking about the plans Paul and I had for the day. I hurried to shower and hurried to the breakfast room before the doors closed at nine.

Alex and I didn’t always have breakfast together. Usually he was earlier, present promptly at seven-thirty when the doors opened. Today I couldn’t help feeling relieved that the cup and saucer and silverware at his place had been removed. He’d apparently come and gone, which meant he was up and about—without adverse effects from his angina attack, I hoped.

And I was glad to see Sophie at our table, sketching in her sketchbook. I had worried about her, hard as I’d tried not to. I filled a bowl of the uncooked oatmeal I’d grown to like and chose a double serving of Caffé Lungo at the coffee machine. Sitting diagonally from Sophie, I was close enough to see how pale and puffy-eyed she looked. She laid down her pencil and sipped from a glass of the Sicilian blood orange juice.

“Nice work,” I said, indicating the drawing she’d made of the breakfast room, with its vaulted ceiling and French doors. A skillful two-point perspective.

She closed her sketch book and toyed with the ring in her eyebrow.

“Have you already eaten?” I asked.

“No. I drank too much last night.” She made a face and put her hand on her stomach.

“You might try bread. Maybe a roll with some jam,” I suggested.

“I cannot,” she said, looking at the red-orange juice. “I am not sure about this, but I thought I should have something.”

I stirred brown sugar into my oatmeal and began to eat. Sophie sipped her juice. She looked quite miserable. Maybe this was her first hangover. I had a feeling that getting drunk might have something to do with the incident at the Moretti Villa yesterday. And what was that all about? I wasn’t sure my earlier theory was all there was to it. My motherly instincts kicked in, and I asked. “Do you want to tell me what happened with Bianca Moretti?”

She shrugged, a pretense that it was nothing. “I lost my temper. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Cristiano was right. He said that parents always disappoint their children, and if you don’t believe it, you never really grow up.”

“Cristiano from the tour company?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. I’d seen them sitting together on the stone wall at the Moretti Villa but had no idea they knew each other well enough for her to confide in him. Cristiano had to be forty.

“I am not a child,” she said, as if she had read my mind. “Cristiano asked me to go out, and I went. I should not have drunk so much, but it was not his fault.”

At that moment Carlo and Varinia Santoro appeared at the door of the breakfast room. They were the last ones. The attendant closed and locked the door. Sophie saw them and leaned toward me. “Please don’t ask me about what happened at the Moretti Villa. But there is something else. Something I saw when I was going to my bathroom. I was sick,” she said, making a gesture of throwing up. She directed her gaze at the couple, Varinia pushing the wheelchair toward their table. Sophie whispered, “I can’t say it now.”

Varinia, hair and make-up perfect as always, situated the wheelchair at the table next to ours. She said, “Buon giorno,” and I returned the greeting. Sophie took a long drink of her juice. Carlo remained aloof, which was not unusual. Varinia, generally not much friendlier than her husband, turned to Sophie and asked, “Are you feeling better this morning?”

Sophie nodded.

Varinia waited a moment longer, as if she expected something else from Sophie, and then, with an expression that was absolutely vinegary, she said, “It is not good to get so drunk. You seemed very confused! I was worried.” Hiking her chin, she headed for the food table.

Carlo darted a glance our way. I had no reason to believe his hearing was impaired, so I didn’t ask Sophie to finish what she’d started to tell me. For a minute, we didn’t say anything. Sophie looked down at her hands in her lap, and then she said, “I am going home to tomorrow, to Casa Vittoni.”

“Oh—tomorrow.” I picked up my cup and held it a moment, considering. She’d been in Florence a week, but her plan to go home seemed as if it had come about suddenly. “Would you like to meet my friend, Paul Broussard, before you go? I know you’re interested in art, and he’s quite an expert. I think he’d like to see your sketches.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I am sorry. I need to go home to my Mamma,” she said, scooting her chair back.

Sweet, I thought. Sometimes, a girl just needs her mother.

“Will I see you later?” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

She left in a hurry. I saw her again after I had finished breakfast. I was in the hall, going to my room. Sophie was entering the chapel with Sister Assunta.

* * * * *

I texted Alex to tell him I was spending the day with Paul, but I’d have my phone if he wanted to reach me. He texted back, saying he needed time to work on his book, so he would stay close to home. I was relieved that he wouldn’t be out by himself. The rest would do him good.

It was a splendid day for sightseeing—blue skies, abundant sunshine, and a gentle breeze. Paul and I walked all over Florence, starting not far from the convent at the Brancacci Chapel, with its impressive frescoes. Still in the Oltrarno district, we toured the Pitti Palace, the elaborate palace of the Medici family. It was well past mid-day before we’d seen all the rooms, the galleries, and the gardens. We crossed the Arno and made our way to the Piazza della Repubblica, where we stopped at a small trattoria. Sitting at an outdoor table across from the carousel, we had a long, leisurely lunch. I didn’t mention Vivere la Toscana! which was just around the corner. I didn’t want Paul to make the connection between the tour company and the cooking class at the Moretti Villa that Bella had ruined for me. Conversation about historic sites was easy and lively, but noticeably, we both avoided mentioning Bella.

Waiting for the check, Paul glanced at his watch. “How the hours have flown by,” he said. “We have just enough time to visit Santa Croce or Santa Maria Novella—one or the other. It is about the same distance to either church but they are in opposite directions from here.”

“You choose,” I said.

“Santa Croce is older,” he began. “You will see the tombs of Michelangelo and many other famous Florentines in the floor and the wall. As for Santa Maria Novella, the marble façade is remarkable. It is a marvelous blend of the Romanesque, Gothic, and Renaissance. Both churches are architectural masterpieces you will appreciate, each with its own character.”

I was smiling, thinking Paul sounded a bit like Wikipedia, but I found it charming. A few more descriptive details of each church, and he decided on Santa Croce. “Piazza Santa Croce is where they will be setting up for the Festa della Rificolona that will begin at dark,” he said.

As Paul had promised, the church was an architectural delight. We toured the interior while we still could. Paul presumed it would close to tourists earlier than usual because of the gathering crowds in the piazza. On another day, I might have wanted to spend more time viewing the spacious nave, the tombs, and the frescoes, but today an hour was enough. During that time, activity in the piazza had intensified. As the staging area for the festival, the square was humming with commotion. People kept arriving with poles bearing colorful paper lanterns. Marching bands were beginning to assemble. I took a few photos of the church’s marble façade, but it was hard to focus on architecture with all the hustle and bustle around us. Paul suggested that we get a table and have something to drink. For once, the seas didn’t part for Monsieur Broussard. We had to wait. By the time we were seated, the square was so packed with people that I couldn’t imagine how it might be this evening.

I ordered a caffe latte. Paul was having a tangerine Italian soda, which made me think of Sophie, the day we’d had lunch after touring the Accademia, and she had said, “I think Papa knows Bianca Moretti.” Sophie had seemed guarded with me, ever since. But today at breakfast she was about to tell me something before Varinia and Carlo Santos arrived. Had Varinia’s comment simply embarrassed Sophie? I hadn’t been able to read her reaction before she left the room in a hurry.

“What is it that they say—a penny for your thoughts?” Paul said.

I apologized for my momentary lapse. “I haven’t told you about Sophie, have I?” I said, “the girl who’s staying at the convent. I wanted her to meet you. She’s a talented young artist.”

“Tell me,” Paul said, and I could see in his expressive eyes that he suspected there was much more I needed to say. I told him everything I knew.

“I wish I knew what’s troubling her—I think it’s more than her father’s affair,” I said.

Paul put his hand on mine. “You have a tender heart, Jordan.”

“Alex tells me it’s none of my business.”

“Perhaps not, but the girl would do well to seek your advice. And, of course, I would be happy to meet her if she is wise enough to let you make the introduction.”

I gave Paul’s hand a squeeze and took mine away, picking up my cup. “She’ll go home tomorrow and I’ll never see her again, so I shouldn’t involve myself.”

Still, Sophie had asked, “Will I see you later?” I’d been out with Paul all afternoon, unavailable if she’d wanted to talk. I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that I’d let her down. I promised myself I’d see her before she left tomorrow.

We finished our drinks and took a taxi. On the way to the convent, I finally asked about Bella. It seemed too odd not to mention her at all. “Did she go to Cortona?”

“Yes. She rented a car and drove herself this morning. I thought she should take the train. That seemed a more sensible choice to me, but”—he gave a little shrug—“what do you do?” That was all he said about Bella. He asked about Alex, and I told him I thought Alex was working on his book, perhaps getting some much-needed rest at the convent.

“I might need a short nap myself before we meet at the café,” I said. “It has been a lovely—lovely—day, Paul.” Yet I couldn’t help noting that we had we been excruciatingly polite with each other.

“Lovely, indeed,” he said, perhaps thinking the same thing, and he kissed my cheek as the taxi pulled up in front of Convento di Santa Francesca Firenze.