Chapter 6

In the convent’s sunny breakfast room Tuesday morning, I suggested to Alex that we should not arrive too early at the Moretti Villa. The drive would take approximately ninety minutes. Angelica had mentioned lunch. Lunch was never before one o’clock in Italy—often later.

I was able to delay our departure until nine-thirty.

Alex was pacing in the front room, the entrance hall, when I came downstairs. He glanced at his watch but couldn’t reasonably scold me because I was still five minutes early. I laid my heavy key ring on the counter in the office and greeted Ivonna, who seemed to work extraordinary hours. Only once had I seen another other young woman in her place. Ivonna’s smile was always cheery, and she always looked up a moment from the computer screen, as she did now, with a greeting beyond the simple “Buon giorno.”

“Please be very careful driving in Tuscany,” she said. “The roads have many curves.” She made an “S” in the air that started at the bottom and went up, a drawing of winding roads.

As we headed around the building to get our car, Alex said, “While I was waiting for you, I learned the names of the couple who sit at the next table in the breakfast room. Carlo and Varinia Santoro. I was telling Ivonna about the Moretti Villa, and they came up and began to make a huge fuss. The woman. Not the man in the wheelchair.”

“A fuss about what?”

“It seems the cleaning woman was unlocking their door when they returned from breakfast, and they’ve requested that no one go into their room except when they are present. Ivonna said the woman left in a bad temper.”

“Wonder what they have in their room that’s such a secret,” I said.

“Ivonna said almost the same thing. She said it was silly to think anyone would want to prowl in their room.” Alex chuckled. “I had to supply the word prowl.”

“Maybe the man has special equipment or clothing, special—I don’t know—I suppose it’s just a privacy thing,” I said. I would not be more specific, but Alex nodded that he got it.

“I heard something else while I was waiting.” He cut his eyes at me to emphasize that he’d had to wait. “Two women from England, I expect, were talking about the caretaker for the convent who was mugged last week, outside the convent wall at the trash bin. I think I saw him yesterday. A little man with a big bandage above his ear.”

“Luigi. He fixed a leak under my sink yesterday,” I said.

Alex raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention the mugging. But I’m glad you didn’t make too much of it. I considered whether I ought to tell you or keep quiet about it.”

“I didn’t know he was mugged. Ivonna said he’d been out for a few days, but not why.”

Not far from the car was the garbage bin. I said, “It is a little worrisome, that someone was mugged just outside the convent walls. And there was that robbery, not far from here.”

“Inside the convent, we are safe,” Alex said. “What are you doing?”

I was digging around in my purse. “I hope I didn’t leave the car keys in my room.”

Alex frowned, and I knew he was calculating the minutes we’d lose if I had to go back.

“Found ‘em,” I said, dangling the keys.

Alex glanced at his watch. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so antsy.

* * * * *

Ivonna was right about driving in the Tuscan hills on the narrow, spiraling roads. There wasn’t as much traffic as in the city, but cars zipped around us as if we were sitting still, and oncoming cars flew past us in a blur. Sometimes they barely missed each other. The views of the countryside were spectacular, tempting me to take my eyes off the road—not a good idea. As the GPS directed us, we found ourselves on a tiny lane, snaking upward, with a steep drop to the valley below. We had left the traffic, which was a good thing because two cars couldn’t easily meet. When we did meet, both of us had to slow to a crawl. At last, at a proper hour, eleven o’clock, we approached our destination—the Moretti Villa, sitting high on a hill.

Eventually, I pulled into a gravel parking area with three other cars. Standing at the knee-high stone fence, I would have been content to keep looking out over the valley, but I heard a woman’s voice: “Alex! Oh, Alex!” she called, her arms outstretched.

Alex opened his arms wide and they met in a long, affectionate embrace, murmuring about how good it was to see each other, how long it had been. As I came closer I noticed the resemblance that Alex had seen when he’d first met Marisa. Angelica was petite like her granddaughter, a bit heavier in the way that has more to do with age than actual weight. The eyes, as blue as the Tuscan sky, were the same as Marisa’s. Her hair was so black that at first I thought she must have colored it, but from the random sprinkling of gray, I decided it had to be natural. She wore it swept up in a twist that seemed a little old-fashioned—but elegant. She was dressed in a loose turquoise blouse with bead work on the neckline, white pants, and white sandals. A beautiful, stylish woman.

At last Alex remembered me—yes, I think he had forgotten.

“Angelica, this is my neice, Jordan Mayfair. Jordan, please meet my dear, dear friend, Angelica Moretti,” he said, quite formally.

Angelica broke away from Alex, grasped my hands, and did the European cheek to cheek thing.

“Benvenuto in casa mia. Welcome to my home, Jordan! This is a beautiful moment for me!” she said. “I could hardly wait for today to come!”

“We’ve been looking forward to it, too—very much,” I said, darting a smile Alex’s way. “Angelica, your villa is lovely.”

“Please, come with me. Let us go to the loggia.” She walked between Alex and me, holding both of our hands, until we reached the heavy, ornately carved door, at which point she led the way through spacious rooms to the back of the house. “Marisa telephoned me and said you had been to Vivere la Toscana!” she said. “I am so glad you met my dear Marisa. She is very smart! She can tell you everything you should know to put in your book, Alex.”

We came out on a terrace—the loggia—beside a pool. The pool itself was not large but the landscaping was exquisite. It overlooked the same valley we’d seen when we parked. “That is Raffaele’s wife, Bianca,” said Angelica, indicating the woman who was swimming. I thought I caught a note of disapproval in her voice. Perhaps she’d expected the daughter-in-law to get out of the pool and greet us, but Bianca seemed to be in her own world, gliding through the water, her backstroke slow and rhythmic.

“Please,” Angelica said, indicating a wrought iron table for eight, sheltered by a huge striped umbrella. A wine goblet with a trace of red wine in the bottom sat on the table.

I couldn’t resist walking over to the edge of the loggia, to get the full panoramic view. The valley was a patchwork of vineyards and golden fields, fencerows defined by tall, slender cypress trees. Not far away a couple of other villas dotted the landscape, and across the valley a village, distinguished by terra cotta roofs, was nestled in the dark green hills. All under the cloudless blue sky. It was the kind of vista that always appeared in advertisements of Tuscany.

I returned to the table where Alex was sitting, his expression one of perfect contentment.

Angelica had removed the nearly-empty wine glass and had gone inside, but a minute later she returned with a plate of cheese, bread, Italian meats, and olives. “This is my other daughter-in-law, Ambra. Roberto’s wife,” she said, indicating the woman who followed her with a pitcher of lemonade and three goblets. There was as much approval in Angelica’s voice as there had been disapproval when she’d spoken of the swimmer, Bianca.

Ambra was a few inches taller than Angelica, medium height, with dark curly hair, cut short. With her comfortable manner and relaxed smile, she was easy to like, immediately.

“Is Marisa your daughter?” I asked her.

“Yes, mine and Rob’s.” Ambra’s face glowed with pride. She began to pour our lemonade.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” Angelica asked her.

“I cannot. I am making ricotta cheesecake. Do you know this dessert?” she asked Alex and me. We both said we’d had cheesecake but probably not the Italian recipe.

“You will like it, I think,” said Ambra.

“We have a bike tour arriving for lunch,” Angelica said. “Ambra works so hard and not just in the kitchen.”

“There is work for everyone on the estate,” Ambra said.

“Yes, there is work enough for everyone who will do it,” Angelica said, with a cut of her eyes at the swimmer.

Ambra went back to the kitchen. Eventually, Bianca got out of the pool, wrapped a towel around her sculpted body, and came to the table. She was pleasant enough when her mother-in-law introduced us, but after the obligatory greeting, she excused herself. “Don’t expect me for lunch, Angelica,” she said, over her shoulder. “I have a board meeting, the museum in Sienna.”

“I apologize for my daughter-in-law,” Angelica said, when Bianca was out of earshot. “Sometimes I am so angry with her I could scream! And sometimes I am sad for her. I think she would not be so cold if things were different with Raff.” Angelica explained that for years Raffaele had done all the marketing for the Moretti wines, and he traveled much of the time, meeting with wholesalers and suppliers, attending sales conferences. “I am afraid they have grown apart. And there was never a child. That would have made a difference, I am sure. Marisa has brought so much joy to Rob and Ambra—to all of us.”

Suddenly she raised her hands as if surrendering, and her voice became musical once again. “Enough of that! Let’s talk of happy things. Alex, tell me about your books!”

That was the line that always made Alex smile.